


NHL!Bitty AU

by onawingandaswear



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, Bitty goes pro, Coming Out, Homophobia, Jack and Bitty living their lives playing for different teams, M/M, Secret Relationship, a lot more light hearted than it may seem at first blush, married zimbits, nhl!Bitty, references to past relationships, still in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 09:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 18,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14469903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear
Summary: Eric Bittle becomes the first openly gay professional hockey player when he's signed by the Seattle Schooners after graduating from Samwell. A series of stories that chronicle how he manages newfound fame, judgment, and a secret relationship with his former college captain.





	1. Part I - Hug Check

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Tumblr in 2017, in the same order they were originally released. I highly recommend reading as an entire work because the first chapters are hella short tumblr posts but there's more substance as you go.

 

_Bitty signs with another team and no one on the Falconers wants to be the guy to check Zimms’ boyfriend; the problem is Bitty’s a quick little fucker and if you don’t stop him somehow he has a tendency to score. They’ve already lost one game because Guy hesitated a half-second too long and god-forbid they end up in a cup series with him._

_Solution?_ _Falconers bring back the patented Horton ‘bear-hug check’; initially just for Bittle, but it spreads league-wide because straight up lifting guys off the ice for a few seconds is hella effective and the linemen haven’t seen it much so they don’t really know how to call it._

—

There are three minutes left in the second period and the Schooners are up by one; Bitty spins to avoid Thirdy, shoots a look to Avery, ready to pass and –

“Miss you, Itty Bitty!” Mashkov crows over the roar of the crowd, his massive chest stopping Eric’s momentum full force. Bitty knows what’s coming next, wrapped up in Mashkov’s arms, squished by pads and misplaced affection, he watches helplessly as the puck slides away, immediately picked off by Thirdy. “Miss your pie!”

 _“Let me go –_ ” Bitty growls, struggling against the hold even as a linesman skates by to examine if what they’re doing constitutes a fight. 

It doesn’t.

“Aww, Bitty not enjoying my hugs,” Mashkov tells the linesman, squeezing tighter, bumping his helmet against Eric’s, “rather I knock out pretty teeth instead.”

_“Fuck you, Tater!”_

“No, no, you fuck  _Zimmboni_. You make _me_  pie.”


	2. Part II - Bitty v. Jack: Chirping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you only see your partner a few times a season, chirping evolves into a really aggressive form of flirting.

_They live apart three-quarters of the year, their physical sex life is basically nonexistent, so Jack and Bitty have a lot of pent-up energy and bring all of their problems to the ice because where else are they going to hash things out? It’s a good thing they don’t play each other often because every Falconers v. Schooners game is a nightmare of awkward chirps, aggressive hugging, and sexual innuendo. It’s like the worst form of couples therapy imaginable. ESPN stops putting mics on them because they can’t edit enough out to make it appropriate._

_____________

Bitty skates by, obviously furious at the call, but instead of turning on the linesman he hones in on Jack, snarling, “Seriously, a Ferrari? Trying to score some 80s side-action? I thought your whole thing was proving you  _aren’t_  your father.”

Bitty gets right up against him, pressing in tight but not moving to drop his gloves or grab at Jack’s jersey. They both know exactly what this is, and Jack pushes down the reflexive spike of  _want_ , grinning around his mouth guard.

“That’s rich coming from you – could you have purchased larger truck? Compensating for something,  _Itty Bitty_?”

Bitty spits out his mouth guard. “After we kick your fucking ass, I’m going to take you home and remind you how ‘ _itty bitty_ ’ I am.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time–”

“Enough. Save foreplay for bedroom,” Tater groans, yanking Jack away from his husband. 

Jack yells, “Are we still fighting?”

“Yes!” Bitty shouts, skating backward to his own bench. “I hate your new publicist and fuck you for approving that photo where it looks like I have two chins.”

“Fight or fuck. You do neither and ruin both.” Tater mutters over the roar of the crowd. “How you married I do not understand.”

“We only play each other a few times a year. If we get all the tough shit out when we play, we can leave it on the ice.”

From across the ice, Bitty mouths ‘love you’ and Jack blows a kiss in return. Tater gags loudly. 

“That is not what ‘ _leave it on the ice_ ’ supposed to mean, Zimmboni.”


	3. Pt. III - Post-Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty loves Seattle as much as a southerner can love a city that barely sees the sunshine, and he loves his boys, but god bless it if he doesn’t cross his fingers and toes every year hoping to get picked up by a Metropolitan team so he can at least live on the same coast as Jack.
> 
> For a few blissful months every year, Bitty gets his husband back; and promptly does none of what he’s planned to do with said husband.
> 
> (Also, point-of-order, Jack’s three-year, 1.2 million a year Falconers contract is on the lower end of the spectrum. The average (2016) NHL salary is around 2.9 mil a year, meaning Jack went pretty cheap for someone being scouted by so many teams. Did our beloved Canadian hockey robot turn down mad-money elsewhere to sign with the Falconers? Probably.)

They’re both snuggled up together in a rare moment of post-season calm. Neither are keen to move any more than they absolutely have to; tucked into lopsided couch cushions while the television plays split-screened between another film missed in theaters and the NHL Network.

It’s been a long, hard-fought season for them both: the Falconers knocked out of the playoffs in the second round, the Schooners barely making a dent in the first. Combine that with their newfound ‘chronic’ injuries and Bitty is happy to just lie here, mindlessly groping any part of Jack he can reach: he’s currently got a handful of pec, while Jack alternates between Bitty’s ass and lower back. It’s not arousing at all, just comfortable; until Jack’s wandering fingers hit a sore spot.  

“You okay?” Jack whispers when Bitty flinches.

“Yeah, no, can you just – It’s tight.” 

“That’s what she said,” Jack mutters to himself, but dutifully digs his thumb into the meat of Bitty’s backside, massaging the tight muscle. “You get enough water today?” Jack questions softly. “We have Gatorade in the fridge, or I can make you a shake.”

“I know we have Gatorade, I bought it -” he groans when Jack presses down hard “- and if you get up from this couch I will divorce you.”

Bitty tries to focus on the ticker-tape scrolling across the bottom of the right-half of the screen when an explosion from the film on the left startles them both; Jack’s resulting jerk rolls Bitty off his chest into a cushion gap.

“ _Sorry_ ,” Jack mutters, trying to rearrange them, “just let me-” 

“Thisis a reason I need to be back home,” Bitty says, face shoved between Jack’s bicep and a throw pillow, “I have been forsaken by my own couch. Maybe I should retire. I can bake again, lose my abs, day-drink with the WAGs, be your stay-at-home trophy husband.”

“Maybe you need to direct all this anger at your agent. You know, the man who can’t get you above the Mason-Dixon and east of the Mississippi at the same time.”

“Ah, yes, who knew those things were mutually exclusive?”

Jack fiddles with the remotes and gets NHL Network fullscreen, putting on the closed captions, and Bitty takes the opportunity to snuggle closer.

“Where do you stand now? Any updates?” Jack asks, getting an arm around Bitty’s torso to hike him closer for a lazy kiss.

“Well, the Avalanche are closer to Providence than the ‘yotes, and they have legal marijuana, which I think I’m going to need if my shoulder doesn’t get with the program, but honestly? Seattle is my team. If this was about money, I could negotiate for more, but it’s not.”

“You brought them a cup, why wouldn’t they love you?”

Bitty hums in agreement and they lapse into a comfortable silence, savoring the time they so rarely get to spend together. 

“You should sign with  _‘Team Zimmermann’,_ ” Jack teases softly, nuzzling his face into Bitty’s newly shorn hair. “I hear the benefits package is amazing.”

“Oh, really, well, can  _‘Team Zimmermann’_  salary me at $2.4 million?”

“Normally I’d need to discuss it with ownership, but that sounds reasonable, let me grab my wallet–” Jack moves to sit up and Bitty pushes him back down. 

“I’d love to be on that phone call with your financial advisor:  _‘I want to pay Eric to not play hockey’_. Also, ‘ _benefits package_ ’? Are you talking about your dick?”

“Actually, I was thinking about housing, but management is happy to provide all sorts of amenities -” Bitty smacks Jack on the chest “-  _ow_ , seriously, though, I don’t know if I can see you carried off the ice again.” 

“Then at least we share the same fear. But would that be so terrible? Not the injuries, retirement. We’ve both got rings, a healthy nest-egg, I could have another ten years in me, or I could be done for good in six months. Conversely,” Bitty pokes at the post-op scars on Jack’s exposed kneecap, “how much more damage can you really take, RoboJack? You’re already half metal.”

“So we give it a year,” Jack concedes, hugging Bitty close. “One more season, just to see where we stand.”

“You say that every year, Sweetpea,” Bitty sighs, half watching his father-in-law guest commentate a game Jack should have been playing in. 

“And every year it works.” Jack leans in for another kiss, and Bitty takes note of the shadows beneath his husband’s eyes.

“One year,” Bitty agrees, dropping his face to Jack’s chest, “one more season, then we can both play for Team Zimmermann.”

“Greatest team ever,” Jack whispers against Bitty’s hair, “just because you’re on it.”


	4. Pt. IV - RPF

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @missweber requested NHL!Bitty dealing with Hockey RPF. This got a little longer than expected, with a side pairing of Jack/philly-cheesesteak. Takes place a few months into Bitty’s second season with the Schooners.

The most annoying thing is that for all of the  _‘Jack/Parse’_ ,  _‘Jack/Tater’_ ,  _‘Jack/Sid’_ ,  _‘Jack/fucking-every-player-on-the-east-coast’_  fic, there are a whopping SIX   _‘Jack/Eric’_  fics on Ao3. Six.

On one hand, Eric’s proud they’ve hidden their relationship so well, on the other, Eric is insulted. But really, with their disappointing portmanteau of  _‘Jeric’_  or  _‘Zittle’_ , it’s not surprising they’re horribly under-appreciated.

“I just wish my fans were more creative.”

Over Skype, Eric watches Jack plow through a Philly cheesesteak with no small measure of jealousy. He’s lonely and hungry, and his asshole boyfriend is doing this on purpose.

“You know,” Jack says, talking out of the side of his half-full mouth, “if you let the Schoons call you  _‘Bitty’_  our name could have been  _‘Zimbits’_. That’s kinda on you.”

“You’re going to sit there with that fucking sandwich and say  _my name_  is the reason people don’t think we’d be a good couple?”

Jack holds up a finger to the camera while taking another bite with an exaggerated moan, Eric flips him off.

“Hey, it is not my fault you’re three hours behind and our cheat days don’t line up.” 

“People ship me with Parse, of all people. Four of the fics are just three-ways with Kent.”

Jack hums in agreement and bites at a bit of steak trying to escape the bun. Eric needs to have a word with that boy about speaking with his mouth full.

“I’m telling your mother you’re gross,” Eric warns, picking up his laptop to walk to the kitchen, suddenly ravenous.

“She knows,” Jack chides, brushing off the threat. “But did you read the fic where we’re at the Olympics? At least you were included in the orgy scene, that’s something.”

“Tater is a very generous lover,” Eric snorts with laughter and scrubs a hand over his face. He  _had_  read that fic, and blushed all through the part where Tater and Jack’s passionate affair caused an international incident, Eric himself having been relegated to a background pairing halfway through. 

“Isn’t he just? It’s weird people don’t pick up on the tension when we play because I feel like it’s really obvious how much I want to fuck you.”

“Romantic, Zimmermann.”

“I’m too tired for romance, Bits. I miss you.”

“You’re also too full of cow. You done yet?” Eric makes a circle gesture around his mouth. “I’m real tired of this meat grinder situation you’ve got going on.”

“Well normally I’d have a different kind of meat to occupy my time, but since you’re in Washington, and I’m in Philadelphia…” Jack grins sloppily and holds up what appears to be the other half of his sandwich.

“Lord in heaven, I’m  _not_  watching you eat that.” Eric laughs, despite his irritation.

“Yes, you are. Because you love me, and this is the only time we’ll get to talk until next Friday.”

Eric perches himself on the counter and watches Jack for a moment, suddenly overcome by just how much he wants his gross, disgusting, cheesesteak mutilating, Canadian boyfriend  _right here_.

“I love you, Sweetpea. So much.” Eric whispers, blinking away tears.

Jack stops pretending to fellate the sandwich, brow furrowed with immediate concern. “I love you too, Bits,” Jack says softly, setting aside his dinner. “This really bothers you, doesn’t it? That people don’t see us together.”

“I know it’s stupid, the whole point is that people don’t suspect anything, but, I just…”

“It hurts.” Jack finishes. “You know how hard it was to play along with the guys when they’d bring up ‘Pimms’? My relationship with Kenny was this huge, painful part of my past and when I was trying to piece together my life there were people obsessed with who I used to be, what I could have been, what I could have had…It was too much. My freshman year, I remember trying to read this one story where Kenny came to Samwell to ‘win me back’ after I got out of rehab.” Jack hesitates like he’s said too much, before, whispering, “I think I threw up after.” 

Jack composes himself and looks at Eric through the screen. “I get it. I understand why you’d want people on your side. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I want it, too.”

Eric scrubs at his eyes to stop the tears and gives Jack what must be a very watery smile.

“We’ll just have to turn up the tension when we play next month, eh?” Jack says playfully. “I mean, you’re pretty sexy when you  _lose_.”

It was almost a sweet moment. Almost.

____

A week later Eric is wrapping up in the locker room when he gets a mysterious text from Jack.  Turns out it’s a URL link that takes him to a newly posted Jack/Eric fic: a 2000 word college AU written by someone with the username  _‘zimbits4ever’._

At first, Eric doesn’t get it, but as he reads he realizes it’s not just  _a_  story, it’s  _his_ story. One he’s heard Jack repeat a dozen times. Graduation day. Their first kiss. And the author’s note at the very end: ‘ _Ours is t_ _he only story that matters.’_

Eric totally doesn’t cry in front of his entire team. 


	5. Part V - 'Single'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first openly gay NHL player can’t be single in Seattle! 
> 
> Since Eric can’t risk telling anyone he has a boyfriend (especially a closeted NHL-er), his only option is to play along as the Schooners go out of their way to find him a boyfriend. This wouldn’t be a problem if his well-meaning teammates didn’t keep trying to introduce him to other closeted players, of which there are more than he would have guessed. Now Eric has to survive a night with Kent Parson.

As the first openly gay player in the NHL, Eric is used to being locker rooms filled with guys bundled up so tight a TSA scanner couldn’t find their genitals; but then there’s stuff like this. Brazen nudity of the ‘I recognize you’re attracted to men, look how cool I am with it’ variety. His new captain leans toward the latter in a way that would make Shitty proud.

“Bittle, we’re going out with a few Aces. You met Kent Parson?”

Mitchell ‘Cricket’ Crocker is pushing 30 and already going gray. He’s also standing in front of Eric’s stall, naked as the day he was born, unconcerned with the fact his junk is at Eric’s eye-level. 

“I’m not sure -”

The last thing Eric wants to do is drink with Kent Parson but he knows better than to turn down an invite from his captain. Except he  _really_  doesn’t want to go.

“You’re gonna want to meet Parson. I insist.” Cricket holds eye contact longer than necessary and Eric doesn’t get what the big deal is …  _oh_. 

Cricket must see the understanding on his face because he smiles and claps a hand on Eric’s shoulder, saying, “We got your back, Bittle. No rookie should be alone after a loss. Come out, have a few drinks, make some friends, yeah? See where the night takes you.”

Carter gives him a thumbs up from across the locker room and Eric finally notices just how many guys are watching. Even the showers have stopped and a few wet heads are poking out from around the corner.

“Alright, I’ll go. But you need to get your dick out of my face so I can change.”

For a moment Eric thinks he’s said too much, but Cricket’s stern glare dissolves as he breaks into a wide grin that shows off his missing canine.

“Bittle’s gracing us with his presence boys!” Cricket hollers, receiving a half-hearted round of applause and a  _‘Get some, Bittle!’_  from the showers.

He doesn’t have to spend the whole night with Kent Parson and he’s allowed to have a little fun, right?

——

“How’s Seattle treating you?”

“Fine.”

“Cricket wanted us to meet.”

“Mmmhmm.”

Kent Parson is lounging in a VIP booth with all the lazy grace of a drunk and physically exhausted hockey player. His genial smile could very well slide off the side of his face, he’s cocked at such an angle, and Eric has never hated anyone more in his entire life. 

“Not much of a talker, are you Bittle?” Parson tries again, clearly confused as to why he’s getting such a cool reception.

“Just don’t have much to say to you,” Eric says, scanning the crowd for Carter so they can get the fuck out of here.

“We met at Samwell, right? Jack’s friend? You were friendly then.”

Well, if that doesn’t butter his biscuits. 

“I’m sure I was, but that was before you came to our house and threatened yourex.”

Parson’s smile drops. “ _No, shit._  That’s how I know you! You were the kid in the hallway.”

Eric lets his silence speak for itself, and they sit like that for several uncomfortable seconds, the club music thrumming in the silence. To his credit, Parson looks suitably chastised.

“Look, not that I owe you my life story –”  _“Not that I care –”_ Eric mutters, _“–_ but I was going through a rough patch, and I apologized to him a long time ago.”

He’s gearing up for a brawl when he realizes what Parson just said. 

“You apologized? When?”

“Maybe a week later? I called him, we talked for a bit, I apologized for getting up in his shit, he apologized for shutting me out. Why, did he say something to you about it? Is he still upset?”

Parson’s concern catches Eric off guard. “He never told me you apologized.”

“Wait, why would he tell you –” Parson reels back and presses a fist to his mouth. “ _Fuck me._ ” Parson’s concern turns to surprise and finally into a weird kind of glee that does nothing for Eric’s attitude. “Are you…with him?”

“Is that funny to you?” Eric counters, immediately pissed.

“No, shit, no, I’m not laughing at you, I’m happy! You know how long I’ve been worried about that brooding son of a bitch?” Parse’s eyes are weirdly damp like he’s going to cry, but he’s still smiling when he leans in close. “You’re serious about him, right? Not just a one-and-done kinda thing?” 

Eric pauses, weighing how much information he really wants to offer, but right at this moment, he’s one of two people on the west coast aware that Jack Zimmermann likes men. The other is sitting in front of him.

“It’ll be three years in May,” Eric says softly, playing with the strap of his watch.

The sound Parse makes is inhuman, high pitched and joyful as he slaps a hand on the table and rattles the empties. Several people turn to see what girl made the noise and appear very confused to have found Kent Parson instead.

“I’m buying you a drink!” He crows. “I’m buying  _everyone_ a drink! Fuck!”

Eric doesn’t quite know what’s happening, but he’s not letting his guard down. Not yet. Parson must notice his reticence and reigns in his excitement.

“Hey, I totally get it, you think I’m a dick, but if you’re worried about me and –” Parson makes a clicking sound with his tongue, implying Jack, “– don’t be. I’m not…you know, I don’t want that anymore. He’ll always be my friend, but we’re very different people. Plus, I’ve got someone too, so whatever.”

Parson pulls his hands tight to his chest and signals ‘1′ ‘4′ with his fingers and a wink. 14. The tall brunet with an easy smile and kind eyes – same fucker that tripped Eric in the 2nd period.  _Jeff Troy,_  who is currently squished between two very attractive women on the dancefloor.

“My boy,” Parson says with a bashful smile. He blinks like he’s just realized something and turns back to Eric. “You’re in Seattle, he’s…not. How are you handling the distance? You open?”

“God no, and not as well as I’d like,” Eric admits against his better judgment. “I miss him. Miss everyone.”

Parson makes a noise of sympathy and motions for Eric to hand over his phone. The alcohol keeps him from putting up more of a fight as the Ace pokes around in Eric’s contacts, adding his number.

“I try to keep tabs on the guys that run in the same circles,” he explains, handing back the phone. “It’s hard when you’re keeping things to yourself, you know? If you’re feeling lonely, just tell me where you’re at and I can hook you up.” Eric’s about to protest when Parson says quickly, “Not sex, just friends. I’m not that sleazy. Maybe when you’re a bit more established and less TMZ click-bait we can do lunch or something. ”

Eric stares down at his phone, back to the lock screen, and tries to process what the hell has just happened. It’s the fourth beer that gives him the balls to ask, “Are we friends now?”

“You follow Kit on Instagram?” He asks, and Eric shakes his head ‘no’. Parson finishes his drink and slides out of the booth with a stern finger pointed at Eric’s chest. “Follow Kit, then we’re friends.”

Parson disappears into the throng and Eric cradles his phone, debating how badly he wants to text Jack.

Instead, he opens up his Instagram app and follows Kit Purrson’s account. 20 minutes later he gets a notification that Kit has followed him back. Eric looks around and notices Kent waving at him from across the club, then a text rolls in:  _‘I still owe you a drink. Come meet Jeff ;)’_


	6. Part VI -  ‘The Code’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric’s teammates are protective of their highly-publicized rookie. Maybe a little too protective. So, when a closeted!Jack gets flirty and starts flustering Eric on the ice, his Schooner teammates conclude that Zimmermann must be harassing Eric and decide to act accordingly. Leaping to Eric’s defense: starting goalie Markus Bay and defenseman Carter Morin. 
> 
> (TW: hockey violence, little bit of blood, big ol’ misunderstandings)

“You seeing this?”

Morin slaps Markus on the shoulder and jerks a thumb toward Zimmermann, who is skating determined circles around Bittle. He stops stretching and watches the Falconers forward come close, say something to Eric, and skate away quickly. This happens twice, each time, Bittle flushes and looks upset, but seems to brush it off and go back to his warm-up drills.

“Do you know what he’s saying?” Markus asks, hoping for some kind of reasonable explanation.

“No, but, just watch, man.”

Zimmermann comes in close again, this time with Mashkov in tow, and Eric doesn’t flinch, but he does  _something_ , skating away quickly as the two Falconers laugh. Again, Bittle looks uncomfortable.

“Didn’t they play together?” Markus asks. “Why’s Zimmermann being a dick now?”

Carter fusses with his helmet and waits for several of the guys to clear the ice. 

“I know Eric doesn’t like people getting in his shit, but he’s been torn up about playing the Falconers. You can’t tell anybody, but I totally heard him crying one night and Zimmermann’s name came up. I guess Bittle had a crush on him in college or something,” Carter explains, worrying his mouthguard. “Shit, maybe Zimmermann found out and that’s why he’s being a dick. You think we should tell Cricket?”

“And tell him what? The Falconers’ Captain is harassing Bittle? No, we can handle this. Just, hold off until we know for sure.”

“Look, Eric may be above going after his old liney, but I’m not.” Carter says, tapping his stick against Markus’ skate blade. “We got this.”

“We got this,” Markus echoes, already watching Zimmermann like a hawk. 

* * *

Bay follows Zimmermann all night, and not just because he’s the one pulling breakaway after breakaway. As the minutes pass, Markus’ anger only grows. 

This is the asshole that Bittle still cries over, the fucker that wields Eric’s college crush like a blunt instrument.

At the end of the second, the Falconers are up by two, the Schooners’ only goal so far coming from Cricket off Eric’s assist, but it hasn’t been enough. In fairness maybe Markus has been slightly distracted, paying more attention to Zimmermann’s playing style than the rest of his team.

At the buzzer, Carter skates up, breathless, “Zimms is still all over Bittle, should I lay him out?”

“Let me handle it, you have too many penalty minutes already. Tell Bittle we’ve got his back.”

“Copy.”

His moment comes late in the third period. The Falcs are  _still_  up by two, despite his best efforts, so he makes a judgment call. Not that Bittle needs the help, but this is more about making a statement — letting everyone know exactly the kind of person Jack Zimmermann is, and telling everyone in the league that the Schooners won’t tolerate disrespect.

On the next play, the Falcs get close, too close, and Zimmermann is so focused on the puck that he’s caught completely off guard when Markus drops a knee (and a glove) to drive his fist right up under Zimmermann’s face mask. Markus feels something shift beneath his knuckles and knows he’s struck pay-dirt when Zimmermann wheels back, nose gushing red.

He’s still reeling in shock when Markus hauls him back in before their teammates can figure out what the hell is happening, and snarls, “Stay the fuck away from Bittle or your nose won’t be the only thing I break, pretty-boy.”

Markus can see the moment his words register, and Zimmermann’s anger slides to confusion.

“Bitty? You think I –” Zimmermann doesn’t finish his thought because St. Martin is dragging him back to the bench so he doesn’t bleed all over the ice.

Markus fist-bumps Morin and is planning to take the penalty gracefully, a worthy punishment for defending a teammate’s honor, but Bittle gets in his face, furious.

“What the hell was that? What happened?”

“Accident,” Markus shrugs. “But maybe now he won’t fuck with you.”

 _“Excuse me?_ ” The linesman waves Bittle off but he won’t go. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Markus!”

He settles in the box, avoids making eye contact with Bittle, who is staring daggers, or Zimmermann, who still looks like he’s trying to figure out what the hell just happened, and immediately starts poking at his swelling knuckles.

He sent a message tonight, he hopes it was the right one.

* * *

They lose, which isn’t a surprise, but the biggest shock is that Carter and Markus do not get the grateful thanks they were expecting.

“Jesus, he’s my  _friend_!” Eric shouts after the last reporter has gone. “He was joking! And you broke his fucking nose?!”

“It didn’t look like he was joking,” Carter defends, stripping off his socks. “You weren’t laughing.”

“You don’t understand, it’s,” Eric cuts off with a huff, head bowed like the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders. “Jack’s…one of my best friends. I’ve been worried about playing  _against_  him because I’ve only ever played  _with_  him, and he is definitely not homophobic.”

He takes a look around the locker room and finds a number of the guys refusing to make eye contact.

“Y’all were really trying to protect me, weren’t you?” Eric asks, and a majority of the guys nod, which is slightly infuriating because Markus is the one who spent time in the box tonight.

“Aw, hell. Alright.” He points at Markus, then Carter.“You two, stay with me. We’re going to have a chat.”

* * *

Zimmermann is waiting for them in the hallway, doing his best impression of a raccoon with his twin black eyes and swollen face. Mashkov hovering at a polite distance, obviously there to prevent potential escalation.

“You broke my nose,” Zimmermann tells Markus the second the doors close, words thick around his injury. “So, thanks for that.”

“Sorry about that, buddy, it was a misunderstanding.” Markus apologizes.

Eric motions to Jack, who could be scowling but Markus really can’t tell. “Boys, this is Jack Zimmermann. Jack, Markus Bay and Carter Morin, the well-intentioned defenders of my honor.” 

Eric takes Jack’s hand and that is…unexpected. 

“Jack is my boyfriend. But it’s still a secret so don’t go running your damn fool mouths.”

“Oh, fuck,” Carter blurts. “Really? Shit, I’m so sorry, we thought you were…you know.”

“Yeah, I know what you thought,” Jack says. “Thank you for looking out for him, but fuck you both.”

Markus offers his hand, still swollen from the hit, and Zimmermann takes it. “Sorry I broke your nose, but you can take comfort knowing that I’ll do the same to anyone stupid enough to come after your boy in the future.”

In response, Zimmermann offers a pained smile while Bittle just holds up a middle finger.


	7. Part VII - Cup Series: PVD vs SEA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Received an anonymous ask requesting Jack and Bitty playing each other for the cup and it turned into the Bittles and Zimmermanns dealing with the grim reality that they will have to choose sides in a big way. 
> 
> In which Alicia is intense, Suzanne is offended, and Bob is just tired.

About ten minutes after the Falconers clinch the Eastern Conference title - when Jack is done with his interviews and off the showers - Coach mutes the 70″ television in the Zimmermann’s media room and sucks in a rough breath. 

“So, how ‘bout that? Our boys, facing off in the final.”

It’s not like they didn’t all know this was a possibility: the Falconers this season’s defending champions after the Schooners were dethroned the year prior; but suddenly the what-if scenario they’ve all hypothetically debated for so long is real and looming.

“Well, clearly we’ll support them both,” Alicia placates. “I mean, thank goodness they both already have rings so it won’t be as painful when the Falconers take the title-”

In a heartbeat, the atmosphere cools, and Suzanne coughs politely before scooting away from Alicia’s side of the couch. 

It might as well be a declaration of war.

“That’s how it’s going to be, eh?” Bob sighs. “We’re family, I was hoping we could handle this like adults.”

Richard snorts and finishes his beer, setting the empty down beside a small pile of torn labels and twisted napkins. “Not likely, when Alicia has so clearly shown your bias.”

“I’m just being realistic,” Alicia defends, crossing her arms and furrowing her brow at the muted sportscaster now reviewing the game’s stats. “I don’t see Eric putting up numbers like  _that.”_

The words are barely out of her mouth when Bob gasps,  _“no,”_ but it’s too late. Suzanne has flown from her seat, pulled to her full 5′4″ glory, eyes blazing like she’s been challenged to a duel.

“I’m going to give you one chance, Alicia. Say you’re sorry and we can leave these nasty thoughts where we found them.”

Alicia scowls at Suzanne and refuses to speak, despite Bob’s pleading. 

“Sweetheart-”

“Suzie-”

A cheerful bell chime breaks the tension and Eric’s name pops up on Suzanne’s caller ID. They stop arguing immediately and she puts the call on speakerphone with a defiant finger, refusing to break eye contact with an equally bitter Alicia.

 _“Mama! The Falcs won!”_  Eric’s voice bubbles through the speakers like he has no idea of the chaos he and Jack have wrought upon the Bittle-Zimmermann family.

“Dicky we were watching! It’s wonderful! You aren’t worried about playing each other, are you?”

This could be it, their own little ceasefire negotiation, and god willing Eric will never know. Bob passes Coach another beer that he takes reluctantly, all the while staring at the phone like it’s a dirty bomb.

_“We talked about it when the possibility became more likely and, I won’t sugarcoat it, it’ll be a bit intense; but we talked it out and no matter what happens, we’ll be playing together.”_

_“Ah, grâce à Dieu!”_ Bob laughs, before slapping a hand to cover his mouth.

 _“What was that?”_  

“Nothing, honey, I’m just very glad you boys are mature enough to see the bigger picture.”  

 _“Thank you, mama. I just hope it’s not too much for you and Coach, I know how competitive y’all get. I can only imagine what it might be like to get you and Jack’s parents in a room together during the final. Jack said Alicia can get a bit aggressive if you can believe that!”_  Eric laughs like it’s an absurd possibility.  _“But, anyway, just wanted to check in – and now Jack’s calling so I should go, but tell Bob and Alicia I said hello!”_

“Of course, honey! Tell Jack we’re proud of him!”

The call ends and Suzanne clicks off the phone with a pointed look at Bob. “Alicia can be a ‘ _little bit’_ aggressive?” 

Alicia smiles sheepishly and tries to hide behind her wine glass while Coach turns the sound back on for the replay of Jack’s last interview. Several minutes pass, and it feels like a careful peace has been achieved. 

After the post-game show has ended and they’re all polishing off the last of the wine on the patio. Everyone is a little drunker than they should be, and Alicia stands to lift her glass like she’s giving a toast to their small party. 

“I am truly sorry. Suzanne, Richard, my words were callous and I’d never want to insult your family.  _Our family._  However, I will not apologize for the fact that  _my_  son is a better hockey player than yours and the Schooners are going to lose. Go Falcs!”

She downs her drink and tosses the glass over her shoulder, off the patio, where it smashes on the concrete.

“Does this happen a lot?” Coach asks under his breath while Suzanne gears up for another fight. Bob rubs at his temple and tries not to acknowledge that his wife is holding a corkscrew like a weapon.

“Let’s just hope there’s never another Falconers/Schooners series in our lifetime.”


	8. Pt. VIII - Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not the first injury, it won’t be the last, but it is the first time Eric’s sacrificed any teeth to the hockey gods. 
> 
> Jack’s already down a few pearly whites; not that you’d know with temporary bridge he had put in after his second year with the Falcs. 
> 
> TW: injury, blood, lost teeth

“Don’t talk,” Danny warns, barely audible over the furious crowd. “27′s stick fucked up your face real nice.”

That is not what he wants to hear, not even close. Eric shakes off a glove and brings it to his mouth, poking at the aching, bloody place where his mouth guard,  _and his front teeth_  used to be. He glides to the bench and shoves Lenny out of the way so their trainer, Mason, can assess the damage. Eric’s vision isn’t blurry and It’s not a concussion he’s worried about.

 _“..ook ‘ike a ‘ick?”_ Eric asks around his swollen, clumsy tongue. When Carter snickers ‘ _yes’,_ Eric holds up three fingers, their not-so-covert way of avoiding the obscene gesture fine.

Coach leans in to inspect the damage. “Can he play?

“You look like a hockey player, son.” Mason chides. “Tilt your head back.” Eric obeys but keeps his good eye on 27, already sliding into the Avs penalty box. “Doesn’t look like his jaw is broken, just lost a few teeth. He’s fine.”

So much for ‘no surgery in the off-season’, he’s going to need implants like Jack. 

Oh, fuck,  _Jack_. 

 _“K’ll the ‘uckers on the p’werpay,”_ Eric orders around his swollen tongue,  _“and f’nd my teeff!”_

Danny, Eric’s wonderful, sweet, long-suffering rookie, nods emphatically before sending the orders down the bench.

“Your man’s gonna be thrilled, lose any more teeth and you can –” Carter makes a crude gesture with his fist “– wait, does he have fake teeth, too? You guys are going to have so much fun-”

 _“Gett’n m’re th’n you.”_ Eric chirps, shaking loose of Mason’s prodding fingers to drop his head and spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

“Good, keep spitting, don’t swallow the blood.” Mason chides, applying a butterfly bandage with one hand and aiming a water bottle with the other.  “C’mon, swish and spit. Let me see what we’re working with.”

Carter snickers. “Yeah, Bittle, don’t swallow.”  

This time Eric spits the pink water all over Carter’s skates.


	9. Part IX - ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric gets hit on in a hotel bar during All-Star weekend. For the first time in a long time, it’s not because he’s a famous hockey player.
> 
> It would be very flattering, except the man trying to seduce him works for Jack’s PR firm, and bro is playing fast and loose with some seriously confidential information.

It’s been a long, exhausting day. Between the flight, check-in, the press junket, the photo ops, all Eric wants is to get a little bit drunk with the guys, grab some dinner, and fool around in Jack’s hotel room. Hopefully in that order, but he’s open to fooling around whenever.

He must have a dopey smile on his face thinking about the debauchery he’s been looking forward to all week when he realizes someone is watching him from across the bar. 

Tall, nice hair, professional, and he’s looking at Eric,  _no,_ at the empty chair  _next_  to him. And he’s walking over. 

“Is this seat taken?”

Eric doesn’t have time to say ‘yes’ before the man has settled himself into Jack’s chair and ordering a drink. Eric quickly hides his VIP badge in his pocket before Nice Hair gives him a once over.

“Whiskey on the rocks for me and . . . ?” He looks at Eric’s beer. “Another one of those when the time comes.”

Nice Hair holds out a hand. “Joel.”

Eric takes the proffered hand and plasters a smile on his face. “Eric. And I really don’t need another drink, thank you. Also, you should know that seat – ”

“Nonsense. It’s already a shame you’re paying for that one.” Joel points at Eric’s bottle. 

 _‘I’m not, Benn bought it because he lost a bet,’ Eric_  doesn’t say.

The TV behind the bar is playing Jack’s interview from earlier; the one where he talks about the Zimmermann Foundation and is generally awkward with an ESPN reporter that kinda looks like Lardo. 

Joel sees him watching. “So, you like hockey or just handsome men?”

“Little bit of both,” Eric slides his cup ring off into the same pocket as his badge. 

Joel leans in, bemused. “Now, the ‘handsome men’ part I’m glad to hear, but hockey? That may take some convincing.”

Oh. This is going to be one of those conversations. 

“Well, what kind of guy do I seem like?”

“That depends, what do you do?”

He could tell the truth, say he’s  _playing_ in the All-Star game as the man clearly doesn’t recognize him, but Eric’s a little bored, a little drunk, and a little bit of a shitty human being. 

“I like to think I’m an entrepreneur,” Eric offers, playing with the label on his bottle. He immediately realizes just how bad that sounds.

“An entrepreneur that likes hockey and hangs out in hotel bars during All-Star weekend waiting for handsome men?” Joel gives him a blatant once-over.

“I’m  _not_  a prostitute,” Eric stammers, embarrassed, “I just –”

“No, no,” Joel comforts, holding up a hand, “I get it. You know there’s a term for that, right?”

It’s been nearly twenty minutes, Jack is still missing in action, so Eric downs the rest of his beer and gives his interloper a dirty look. “Don’t even _think_ of calling me a puckbunny.”

Joel laughs like he wasn’t just implying Eric is a whore -- like they’re friends and he’s not ignoring every obvious sign that Eric is not interested.

“You know, since Boston is hosting the All-Star game this weekend, this bar could be full of hockey players and you’d never even realize it.”

He’s done. This conversation is toeing into uncomfortable territory and Eric’s giving up on his boyfriend coming to his rescue. He’s a big boy, he can take care of things himself. 

“Oh?” Eric says, glancing around to catch PK’s eye across the room. “Do  _you_  recognize any players, Joel? Because I’m – ”

“It’s just my day job,” Joel interrupts him, flashing a VIP Press badge with a cheeky grin:  _Joel Murrel, Langston Group,_  “but I like to consider myself an entrepreneur as well.” 

The company name stops Eric short.  _Langston._  Why does that sound so familiar?

“I know it says press, but really I work in PR; and, not to brag, my firm represents a number of the athletes playing this weekend,” he says, leaning in to whisper, “including Zimmermann up there.” 

 _There it is_. Langston Group. The Zimmermann’s PR team, not just Jack’s, but Bob and Alicia’s as well. That’s…confidential, right? Has to be, that’s literally what they’re paying for – discretion. At least, it’s what Eric is paying his own people for.

“Really?”Eric questions, suddenly, terribly sober. “Don’t you have to sign NDAs when you work with celebrities? Can you really tell me stuff like that?”

“Of course, but he’s not my client personally, so anything I’ve heard is just a ‘rumor’, you know? But, man, I’ve heard some  _stories_.”

 _‘Tread lightly, hot shot,’_ Eric thinks to himself, pretending to tweet something while discreetly opening his mic app and pressing ‘record’, _‘that’s my man.’_

“That’s surprising, he seems so friendly.”

Joel actually snorts so hard he loses a little bit of drink. “Friendly? Oh no,” he snatches a napkin from the bar and dabs at the spilled whiskey on his sleeve. “That man has all the personality of a wet blanket. He’s a nightmare client, super paranoid, his agent’s always calling, it feels like we cover up a new scandal every few weeks.”  

“But I can say this,” Joel rests a hand on Eric’s arm, thumb stroking over the material of his suit jacket, “I know for a fact he and I have the same type, handsome, blonde, and  _male_.”

Eric doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry – like he’s transcended into another plane of existence where serene rage is a real thing. Then something snaps and he’s all too human again, on his feet before he realizes what’s happening. The room is too small, too full of unfriendly ears, and this guy is running his mouth, using Jack’s personal life as a bargaining chip in the hopes of getting laid? How many other people has he talked to about Jack? 

“Whoa, hey, that got you excited –”

Eric could have been a fan; Jesus, he could have been a  _reporter_.

“Joel  _Murrell_ , was it? It’s been lovely, but I’m afraid I have a prior engagement I just now remembered. Do you have a card? Maybe we can chat later.”

Murrell frowns like he wants to protest but opens his wallet to grab a business card anyway. It’s almost serendipitous that Tater chooses that very moment to sidle up beside Eric.

“B! Who is your new friend?”

“B?” Murrell questions.

“Bittle?” Tater explains, confused, looking at Eric, “Does he not know who you are? Eric Bittle, plays for Schooners?” Tater motions to the press badge on Murrell’s hip. “I’m thinking you are not very good at your job.”

 _“You’re a hockey player?”_ Murrell asks, dumbstruck. 

“This is Joel, and he was just leaving.” Eric snatches the business card from his hand and Tater nods, immediately understanding.

“Ah, well, good thing because we need you for shots. If you will excuse us,” Tater rests a hand on Eric’s shoulder and steers him away. Staring down a table of All-Stars, Eric realizes he has to take care of this  _right now_.

“I’ll be right back, Tater, order me a drink and make Bennett pay for it. Get something for Jack, too.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, instead, he retreats to the bathroom and after checking all the stalls to be sure he’s alone, pulls out his phone to call the first person he can think of.

He waits for several rings and the call goes to voicemail, so he tries again. And again. On the fourth attempt, Bob answers, voice heavy with sleep and worry. Eric woke him up and he doesn’t give two shits because this is important.

_“Bob, it’s Eric, listen, I know it’s late – and Jack’s fine – but we need to talk.”_

 

* * *

 

_Bonus: Aftermath_

* * *

 

He’s impatiently waiting for his morning Americano when a call beeps in through his earbuds and Siri announces it’s the office.

“Murrell.”

 _“Joel, you can’t come in,”_  Leann, his assistant, hisses over the phone,  _“It’s a zoo in here. Mr. Langston is asking for you personally, my phone has been ringing off the hook since 7.”_

That’s odd, but he’s been working a Senate race, he’s been in the hot seat more than his fair share lately. “Well, then I have to go in. Am I in trouble or something?”

_“Maybe? Probably? I don’t know! Just, there’s chatter out of the Montreal office, and the Zimmermann’s just got here, and someone mentioned something about a leak –”_

“Which one?”

_“Sorry?”_

“Which Zimmermann?”

 _“Which…? Joel,_ all of them.  _Rodney was on a conference call yesterday and they’re pulling their contracts. They’re in the conference room right now and it’s a mess, they’ve got lawyers and everything.”_

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with me. Did something happen with Buckner?”

_“Don’t worry about the campaign, they’re saying you’re the leak!”_

“What? That’s insane. That’s not even my contract. I’m coming in, and I’m sorting this out.”

_“No, wait –”_

He hangs up the phone and drops out of the Starbucks queue, combing over the last few weeks in his mind for anything that could have slipped out. He comes up empty.

The cab ride is tense. The elevator ride is tense. The secretary that greets him is tense, and no member of the junior staff will meet his eyes. Leann corners him before he gets to the conference room, taking his bag and whispering,  _“This is a terrible idea.”_

“I didn’t do anything wrong, Leann, they can’t fire a junior VP on hearsay.”

Joel eases open the double doors to the conference room, ready to defend himself with a show of bravado, but the words die on his lips when he sees a full table staring him down: on one side, the senior partners and the New York office’s legal team. On the other: the entire Zimmermann family, a small contingent of their own lawyers, and an all-too familiar face. The man from the bar. The hockey player that he – oh, God.

“Mr. Murrell,” Eric Bittle greets with a tight smile, “so glad you could finally join us.”


	10. Part X - Body Issue(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ESPN Magazine comes calling. Eric makes a creative choice. Jack gets excited.

_Cold. Colder. Freezing._

“The Body Issue, Bits. You can’t turn this down, and if I did it for you, you have to do it for me.”

Actually, a three-hour, naked photo shoot on ice is definitely something he can turn down, but he promised Jack he would participate if asked. Granted, it was a sleep-deprived, post-coital promise, but a promise just the same. 

A copy of the spread from Jack’s issue is already tastefully hung in the master bathroom of his townhouse. Eric will have to get his framed to match.

It’s not about the nudity, except, maybe it is a little bit, but he’s worked hard to get his body to look this good. His ass may never be in the same arena as Jack’s magnificent backside, but hell, if the whole world got to ogle Jack, why can’t Eric get some love, too? 

When he breaks the news over Skype, Jack is thrilled in such a weirdly voyeuristic way that Eric makes a mental note to revisit the discussion at a later date.

“You’re going to be gorgeous,” Jack teases, framing his fingers like a viewfinder and peering through the square with one eye closed. “I can feelit in my gut.”

“You sure that feeling is really in your gut and not just in your pants?” Eric chirps, finishing off one last cookie before his obligatory Body Issue diet starts.

“No comment,” Jack says, making a click sound with his tongue. “There. I’ll remember this moment always.”

“There is this wonderful thing now where you can take screenshots – here, I’ll even hold still long enough for you.”

Eric freezes in place, jutting out his lower jaw, crossing his eyes and pulling his lips into an exaggerated pout while he rests his chin on his hand. He holds the pose for all of two seconds when he hears a tell-tale ‘click’ through the speakers and snaps up.

“Wait, you weren’t actually supposed to –”

“Too late. I had such a beautiful image of you in my mind but now I have this to look at this for the rest of eternity.”

“Jack, delete it.”

“No, Bits, how else am I supposed to remember you if I get amnesia? No, this is going in the safe. And on the Christmas card.”

“Jack, I will fly to Providence and kill you myself if you don’t delete that photo.”

“That doesn’t sound like a threat, Bits.”

He has two months before the shoot. He can do this.

* * *

“We’d like to show off your flexibility,” the photographer explains while the makeup girl touches up his face, “maybe catch you mid shot?”

It seems agreeable enough, capturing him from the left side so you can see the championship tattoo Eric shares with almost every player from Samwell’s 2016-2017 hockey team, and the Schooners Stanley Cup Champions tattoo he’d had done not three years later.

The composition looks great, they show him a few snaps early on and while it’s a great idea, in theory, the lighting isn’t perfect and after almost a full hour of firing puck after puck at an empty net, Eric can safely say his balls are now inside him. He calls for a break and gladly accepts a robe from a production assistant.

“Are you getting what you need? Should I come at the net from a different angle?”

“We don’t want to have to photoshop you, let’s stick with this.”

“It’s so cold my penis is currently the size of a fun-size Twix bar, I don’t think you’ll need to adjust much.”

He snaps a quick selfie with the rink and lighting equipment behind him. 

_‘Hope y’all appreciate what I go through for you! #iceicebaby #schooners #espn #bodyissue’_

He fails to hide his grin when one of the first accounts to favorite and retweet the photo is one of Jack’s aliases. But the tags in the notification stop him short.  _#fingerscrossed #nakedinthesinbin_

That’s . . . not a bad idea at all. 

* * *

The photo that ends up printed is a shot of Eric from behind, arms braced between panes of glass as he steps out of the penalty box onto the ice. People love the narrative, a gorgeous representation of coming out, Eric, stripped bare, unafraid to defy expectation and do what’s right. It’s powerful. Transcendent. 

Under Armour wants him to recreate the shoot for a ‘Pride’ product launch. Bauer wants to do a commercial. The Schooners’ ownership group wants to capitalize on the attention and announces the team’s secret Seattle Pride float a month early. 

After the issue hits the stands, a beat reporter sticks a faded silver recorder in his face and asks, “What inspired you to take that photo? What message were you really trying to send?”

Eric thinks for a moment, debates telling the truth, takes a breath and ultimately repeats the line ESPN wants him to, a statement which amounts to, ‘I am an activist, we planned this all along, I definitely wasn’t just trying to make my boyfriend horny.”


	11. Part XI - Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack has been looking forward to Eric’s birthday for months, but between storms and politicians, Jack isn’t getting to Seattle anytime soon. 
> 
> Alicia has a backup plan.

It’s a disaster. It’s a tragedy. It’s the absolute last thing in the world Jack expected to be dealing with today of all days. Months of meticulous planning and Jack’s stuck in an airport lounge with his mother watching Air Force One ground every flight out of Boston AFTER a forced weather grounding. 

“It’s been six hours. I’m going to miss his birthday,” Jack relents, pushing an almond around his plate with a coffee stirrer. “I should have flown out last night, I could have slept on the plane.” 

Jack looks across the small aisle to see his mother frowning at him.

“How upset do you think he’ll be?”

“Honestly? Probably not as upset as you are. You’ll miss his birthday by a few hours, and that’ll be disappointing, but you’ll be there tomorrow,” Alicia soothes, nails clicking as she types with one hand and pinches a credit card in the other. “You know how many times your father missed  _my_  birthday? Not that I didn’t return the favor plenty of times – ” Her phone buzzes and she holds up an apologetic finger. “One moment, Darling – Hello? Yes, I am, thank you for asking.”

Jack tunes out his mother and rolls his neck to watch the empty tarmac as he remembers the countless birthdays, holidays, and family events missed due to shooting schedules and playoff games. In fact, missing milestones was a Zimmermann family tradition as beloved as Canada Day fireworks; fireworks that Jack often missed thanks to summer training camps.

However, the memory does nothing to absolve Jack of his guilt. He’s had to fight for every moment he shares with Bitty, big and small, and he had  _plans_. His carry on is stuffed to bursting with small gifts he’s been hoarding for weeks: [rainbow candies from their favorite sweet shop in Montreal,](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fcandylabs.ca%2Fproducts%2Fpassionate-dragon&t=Y2RkZGQzZmMxYjA2Njg0YmIzMDI1MWU1OWFiYmJlZTliYTQ4YzBiOCxTSEJpcndYOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AJ5BcEt3EWDjPCQ3XvgWvvQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fwhoacanada.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F161754876397%2Fnhl-bitty-part-xi-birthday&m=1) coffee beans from Annie’s, a VIP enamel pin from Beyoncé’s Formation Tour, a pair of Falconers sweatpants with ‘Zimmermann’ printed on the seat. Well, that last one may have been more for Jack than the others, but still.

The big gift was supposed to be Jack himself; now he just has a delayed flight and a Samsonite filled with knick-knacks. He’s a terrible boyfriend.

His mother snaps her fingers at him and waves, phone still pressed against her ear, whispering, “Jack, what’s Eric’s favorite color?”

“Red,” Jack sighs, throwing his legs wide and sliding down the armchair slightly.

She doesn’t question his hesitation, but does quirk a brow at his posture, and repeats ‘red’ to whoever she’s talking to. He tries to ask what she’s doing but she waves a hand to shush him. “Of course I’ll email the delivery address in a moment. Thank you again.”

“What are you doing?” Jack asks after she slides her phone back into her purse.

“I learned a few tricks from your father, namely when you miss something important, go big or go home. And since you can’t go home,” she flips her tablet around to show Jack what she’s been working on, “you’re going to go  _big_.”

Jack’s focus is pulled immediately. “You don’t think it’s too much? I’ve never spent that much on a gift before.”

“Well, in fairness, I’m the one who bought it, you’re just taking the credit. Now, what do you want the dealership to print on the card?”

* * *

Eric pops out of the elevator expecting to see a large bouquet at the front desk, Jack’s usual ‘sorry I can’t make it’ gift, but there’s nothing and it stops him short. 

He’d known Jack wasn’t going to make it in time for dinner, they’d discussed it and Jack had apologized at length for flight delays far beyond his control, but Eric had rallied knowing he’d see Jack and Alicia  _tomorrow_. 

Immediately, tears are burning behind his eyes and it’s so stupid that this is what would get him: an innocent delivery notification that would lift his hopes and dash them in the just span of an elevator ride. 

“Oh, hey, Eric, this came for you,” Barry says cheerfully when he notices Eric standing in the lobby trying not to cry. He pulls a thick black envelope from behind the counter and something like hope flutters in Eric’s chest. 

_Please be from Jack._

He opens the weighted packet and slides out a stack of papers, with a note on top that reads:

_B,_

_The president ruined your birthday. Hope this makes up for it._

_Love, JZ AZ BZ_

_(p.s. maybe not as great as Betsy 2.0, but we hope you like it)_

Eric up-ends the envelope, dumping the remaining contents onto the counter, and two glossy black keyfobs roll out. It isn’t. It can’t be. Jack wouldn’t do something like this, he loves grand gestures but –

“They dropped it out front,” Barry offers helpfully, failing to school the grin off his face. “I figured you’d want to move it yourself.”

Eric forgets he’s in sandals and compression shorts and a threadbare Samwell tank, sprinting through the doors to find [a dark red Mustang ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.mustang6g.com%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2017%2F01%2F2018-Mustang-Crimson-Red-657x360.jpg&t=ZjhkZTZhNWI0ZjdhNmNiOTQwYmU0ZmU2OTgyNmU4NmU3NTZhYjZkOCxTSEJpcndYOQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AJ5BcEt3EWDjPCQ3XvgWvvQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fwhoacanada.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F161754876397%2Fnhl-bitty-part-xi-birthday&m=1)parked in the loading zone with an oversized red bow resting haphazardly on the hood. 

He fumbles with the fob and hits the lock button twice – one last check to make sure it’s not some elaborate joke – and when the lights flash Eric doesn’t  _quite_  squeal, but it’s close enough he startles a woman walking her dog.

 _‘Way better than flowers!’_ he texts Jack, before remembering his boyfriend is still grounded in Boston and just calls outright.

* * *

“It’s him,” Jack says when his phone starts buzzing with notifications. “You think they delivered it already?”

“Oh, I know they did,” Alicia smiles and lets her finger hover over the answer button, “he posted a photo on Twitter five minutes ago.”

“What if it isn’t enough? I know he likes the new Jaguar, and he was telling me about Morin’s Maserati last month.” Jack rests his head on his folded arms, finally beginning to feel that that third whiskey sour.

“So next year you buy him a Quattroporte,” she chides. “You have to give yourself room or it’s all meaningless. You start domestic, then you graduate to foreign.”

Alicia freezes. “Oh, my God, I just realized my mother was talking about men not cars.”

Jack snorts into his soda and the buzzing stops only to be replaced by a low chime - Jack’s ringtone for Bitty. 

“Maman you answer it I don’t want him to be mad.”

“He won’t be  _mad_.”

“You don’t know,” Jack lifts his head from the table and slides his phone over, breathing deeply before tapping the answer button, then the speaker button at his mother’s prompting.

“Happy birthday, Bits!”

“ _Jack Laurent Zimmermann you are the most thoughtful, generous, amazingly wonderful human being to have walked the earth –”_

Alicia gives him a cheeky wink. ‘ _Told you,’_ she mouths.


	12. Part XII -  ‘A Stanley Cup Wedding’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Schooners win game seven and dethrone the defending champion Falconers to claim Seattle’s first national title. 
> 
> Eric was definitely not expecting Jack to propose immediately after losing.
> 
> (A rework of the ‘Game 7 PVD vs SEA’ prompt that totally retcons some NHL!Bitty stuff, so timeline-wise: the Falconers took the cup Eric’s second year with the Schooners. The Schooners win the following season.)

Game Seven. Third period. Eric’s running on adrenaline, blue Gatorade, and rage.

Jack and the rest of the Falconers first line are racing to catch up, but Eric is ‘criminally fast’ (thank you ESPN for the lovely descriptor), and it’s almost too easy to whip the puck to Carter and wait for the siren.

Snowy can’t stop it. The Schooners will win in regulation. 

For a brief, terrifying moment, Eric sees Morin’s breakaway as the death knell of his relationship. He has flashes of Freshman year and he thinks  _‘Jack is going to hate me’_.

Eric closes his eyes and waits.

The siren blares and someone slams into his side, but he only has a moment to rally before he’s hit by a wall of sound that vibrates the ice beneath his skates and reverbs in his chest. The whole arena must be shaking because he’s never heard anything like this before.

Except that’s not quite true, because he was there last year in Providence, it’s just that the sound wasn’t directed at  _him_.

It’s Seattle’s first championship.

Eric forces open his eyes and can’t see much beyond the mob of teammates that have surrounded him, but there’s someone else. A body in Falconer’s blue that’s mushed up against Eric and screaming as loudly as any of his teammates.

“ _Mon Petit Lapin est un Champion!_ ” Jack shouts,  _right_  in his ear, before pressing a sloppy kiss against Eric’s cheek, the affectionate gesture hidden in the safety of the huddle.

So much for Jack being upset.

When the mob starts to break down Cricket notices Jack among their ranks and grabs his jersey to pull him away from Eric. 

“Zimmermann! Get back to your own team!” 

 _“Mon dieu, t'es beau,”_ Jack continues talking, refusing to break eye contact even as Bay shoves him back to wrap Eric in a hug of his own.

 _“Ouais, il est,”_ Bitty says back, though Jack can’t hear him, skating back to console the Falconers after the loss. “I am. Oh, my god, I am. We won.”

“We won!” Cricket echoes, and the team  _roars_. 

* * *

They line up to shake hands and when Jack reaches Eric he says, “I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than you.”

Eric doesn’t have time to respond before he’s being coaxed along and Tater slaps his hand so hard Eric thinks he might have broken something.

The next few minutes are a blur of screaming, sweaty hugs, candid photos, posed photos, interviews, and distantly he can see his parents with the Zimmermanns behind the glass, waving and waiting to be escorted to the ice. Behind them, Eric can just make out the small hoard of Samwell alums dressed in custom red ‘Bittlemann’ and ‘Zimbits’ jerseys, though Shitty appears to have shed most of his clothing at this point. 

Eric slips away from another reporter and, overwhelmed, can’t quite figure out what to do now. He wants his parents. He wants Jack.  _He wants to lift the fucking Stanley Cup._

They’re rolling out the carpet for the cup presentation and someone is tugging at his arm. Someone that stinks a lot like –

“Jack!” He spins and hugs his boyfriend before remembering there are cameras and pushing away quickly.

“It’s okay,” Jack assures him, pulling him back into a tight hold. “I’m gonna propose,” he huffs against Eric’s sweaty hair, “right here.”

“What? Now?” Eric asks, not sure if its the exhaustion or just generic shock. “I mean, are you going to come out?”

“Right now,” Jack nods, pulling back with a goofy grin. “But only if you want to.”

The music is deafening and out of the corner of his eye, Eric can see Cricket grinning like a loon before a swarm of reporters and several cameras. They’re bringing out the cup, and Eric doesn’t  _exactly_ care because Jack’s going to come out. And he just proposed that he is planning to propose?

Maybe he has a concussion. Maybe he’s not thinking clearly because is what universe does Jack lose the Stanley Cup, come out, and propose to Eric at the same time?

“But you lost,” Eric says gently, afraid Jack’s about to realize he’s made a mistake. 

“And you won,” Jack counters, just as gently, cupping Bitty’s face. “And you have no idea how proud I am. Six years ago you’d pass out if you got hit. Tonight you ran me into the boards twice!”

“Cause you were being an asshole, Sweetpea,” Eric defends, fighting the warmth rising in his cheeks.

“And it was great, but you know who helped you through that? I did,” Jack grins. “Checked you so many times you forgot you hated me. So, it’s a bit like I won too, you know? I got to see the man I love, the man I want to spend the rest of my life with,  _fearless_.”

_Oh. That’s._

Eric grabs a handful of Jack’s jersey and pulls him down into a kiss, heedless of the flashing lights and screaming spectators. When they separate Jack’s expression is dazed.

“So you’ll marry me?” Jack cradles Eric’s sweaty face and peppers kisses across his cheek. “Please say yes. Make it official.”

Eric grins and tucks his face against Jack’s neck, “Yes, I will marry you.”

They’d discussed it before, in the same half-measures and what-ifs that always circled conversations about their relationship and Jack’s eventual coming out. 

Somewhere between the playoffs and this moment, Jack must have made peace with his demons because he’s here now, declaring his love on the biggest stage he could possibly find. It’s only by the grace of the hockey gods that no reporters have managed to stick a microphone between them yet. 

Then Eric blinks, noticing Sorenson’s blond head in the crowd, and he has a bold, terrible, horrible,  _wonderful_ idea.

“Sorenson is ordained,” Eric says, just loud enough for Jack to hear. “Our family and friends are here. What about right now?” 

“Right now?” Jack stares at Eric and grins like he hasn’t just lost Game 7 of the finals. Like Eric isn’t about to hoist the cup. Like they didn’t just out themselves on national television.

“That’s crazy,” he breathes, pulling Eric into another kiss. “ _Let’s do it._ ”

Something bubbles up in Eric’s stomach. Butterflies? Adrenaline? Sheer joy? Perhaps all of the above?

Carter swings by with a stack of hats and shoves one on Eric’s head so the brim knocks against Jack’s nose. “Stop macking on your man and come lift the fucking cup!”

Jack laughs and shoves the cap out of his face. “Carter, we’re getting married. Right now. Grab Sorenson.”

Morin freezes. “No shit? Can I be his best man?”

“Sure, just get Andrew before it’s too late. We have to kiss when Bits lifts the cup.”

Morin retreats and Jack takes Eric’s face in his hands again. 

“You sure this is what you want, Bits?” Jack asks, brow furrowed slightly. “I’m all for it, but if we wait for everyone to get over here we’ll be swarmed. We have to do this right now.”

Eric pulls Jack’s hands down into his own and smiles up at his fiancé  _(fiancé!)_. “I’m okay with that if you are.”

Sorenson skates over with Bay and Morin, interrupting the moment. “What’s this about you getting married?”

“You’re still ordained, right? We want you to marry us.” Eric explains. “Like right now.”

Sorenson looks at Morin. “Is this legit?”

“Why would we lie about this?” Bay shoves Sorenson’s shoulder. “C’mon, you in or out?”

“What, now? I mean, yeah, I can, but shit, Bittle, you’re putting me on the spot, you have vows? Rings?” Eric shakes his head and Jack must mirror the action because Andrew just groans and rips off his hat. “Fuck guys, fine. I’ve never done a gay wedding, but okay.”

He motions for them to scoot closer. “Uh, dearly beloved –”

Eric sees an NBC reporter hovering nearby and snaps his fingers to interrupt. “No time, skip to the end.”

 _“Bridezilla over here_  – do you, Eric Bittle, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband to have and to hold in sickness and in health  _yadda yadda yadda_?”

“I do,” Eric says, taking Jack’s hand and squeezing tight.

“And do you, Jack Zimmermann, take Eric Bittle to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“Definitely,” Jack breathes, smiling so hard Eric thinks his chapped lips might split. 

“Then by the power vested in me by the Universal Life Church, you fuckers are married.” Andrew waves his arms half-heartedly. “But not totally. You still need paperwork, and Morin and Bay are your witnesses.”

“Sick!” Bay high-fives Morin.

Eric tugs the sleeve of Jack’s jersey. “Hey, we still need to kiss.”

“Not yet,” Jack warns. “We should both be touching the cup when we share our first kiss as a married couple.”

A few short years ago, Eric would have laughed outright at Jack’s superstitions. But now? 

“Lord Stanley will bless the union, and the league will fear our power,” Eric jokes, only half-kidding when Jack’s smile turns just a little self-indulgent. 

“Bittle!” Someone yells, and Jack shoos him away.

“Go be with your team!”

“I think I’d rather be with my husband,” Eric says, and Jack flushes pink before Eric looses sight again, Carter dragging him bodily back to the reporters and the cup. He blinks and he’s standing beside his captain while the world narrows to the trophy held above his head.

“Congratulations, kid,” Cricket grins, handing the cup to Eric. “You’ve earned this.”

Eric grips the metal tight and feels the weight of it for the first time. Not just the 35 pounds of silver and nickel, but the weight of a legacy far bigger than any one player. 

He stops fighting the urge to be presentable, lifts the cup high and  _screams_ , forcing every painful moment in his entire life out into one throat-shredding cry. 

For every church lady who looked down her nose at him and talked to Mama about ‘camps’, for every relative who described his love of figure skating as ‘faggy’, for the classmates who wouldn’t sit next to him and the junior varsity football players that actually tried to  _kill_  him …

For every person that every tried to make him think he was less than. 

_Fuck you._

His cheeks are wet, the crowd is going nuts, and his parents are crying. 

Bob has an arm around his father’s shoulder and  _Coach_  is  _crying_.

He needs to pass the cup on, but he’s not ready yet. He scans quickly for Jack’s name from the previous year, and when he finds it he brings the cup to his lips, pressing firmly enough he’s sure ‘ZIMMERMANN’ can be read plain-as-day on his lips.

 _‘Thank you for giving me this,’_ Eric thinks, blocking out everything else for just a moment. _‘And thank you for giving us Jack.’_

He blinks against the lights and finds Jack in the crowd, beaming beside his parents. 

It’s time. 

Eric makes a b-line to his family ( _His family!)_ and stops short of Jack. 

“Hey,” he says, suddenly hoarse with the realization that this is his  _husband_. He’s married (kinda), he’s holding the Stanley Cup in front of everyone he’s ever cared about, and Jack Zimmermann’s ass will forever belong to  _Eric Richard Bittle_.

“Hey, Bits,” Jack replies, barely audibly over Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster chanting  _‘Bittle, Bittle, Bittle.’_ Eric motions up with his chin and Jack reaches up to cover Eric’s fingers with his own until the cup’s weight is split between them. 

By now word has spread and every camera in the arena is trained on them, but he tunes out the crowd, his teammates, the reporters, his friends, his parents and his in-laws, and he leans in to capture Jack’s lips.

It’s not their first kiss, but it might as well be.


	13. Part XIII - Gossip Folks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @heyfightme prompted me to write closeted!Jack having to hold his tongue while people talk about Bitty, and this came out. Love ya, babe <3

Jack is a year removed from graduation, stroking egos at a Falconers’ silent auction the first time it happens. 

A stern-looking gentleman he only vaguely recognizes rests a heavy hand on his arm and says, “Jack Zimmermann,” with a smile as rehearsed as any Jack has ever had the pleasure of seeing, “speak of the devil, Peter Williams, Centurion Holdings.”

Jack recognizes the name and smiles the way he knows he’s supposed to when he meets someone above his pay grade and shakes the proffered hand; only just noticing the small huddle of gilded socialites waiting to pull him into something uncomfortable.

Jack knows an ambush when he sees one.

“Maybe you can clarify something for us, there are rumors going around that your alma mater made a homosexual the captain of your former team.”

“Excuse me?” Jack says, trying to keep his voice even, though the group is blue-blood drunk and wouldn’t be able to pick up on Jack’s limited social cues if they tried.

“The new captain of your college team,” Williams snaps his fingers, pretending to jog his memory when Jack knows  _damn well_  the man remembers Eric’s name. “Bittle! That’s it. Thoughts?”

There isn’t a question to answer, just an opened ended invitation for Jack to gossip about a former teammate without judgment.  

He’s hit suddenly with a memory of Bitty, half-naked in Jack’s bed, slapping a hand to his chest dramatically,  _“Lord in heaven, a gay man playing hockey? Say it ain’t so! The sport will never recover!”_  Then he’d wrapped a hand around Jack’s dick and whispered,  _“Just wait until they find out how many of us there really are.”_

He shuffles slightly and frowns at Williams before addressing the whole group.

“Eric Bittle is an amazing player. He was an asset on my line, and I’m proud the team is recognizing his leadership skills. His sexuality has no bearing on his play.”

A woman he recognizes as a Bauer executive shakes her head. “Oh, no, you misunderstand, we’re thrilled to see diversity on the collegiate level, we’re just curious if you think it’s a cry for attention. Samwell has never been hurting for alumni support, but your attendance was a feather in the university’s cap. The hockey program wouldn’t be near what it is today if not for you and your family’s involvement, but three consecutive Frozen Four appearances with nothing to show for it, and the graduating seniors are taking the last of that Zimmermann charm with them. The first gay NCAA captain will keep them relevant when they fail to make the playoffs this season.”

Jack doesn’t flinch, he’s better than that, but he is cognizant of how tightly he’s holding his champagne flute.

“I have the utmost faith in my former teammates.”

“You can be honest here,” Williams smiles toothily, reminding Jack of a shark. “We all know the score.”

He forces a smile. “I stand by my school and my former teammates. If you’ll excuse me,” Jack catches sight of his father and retreats, desperate for the out.

Bob is skewering cocktail shrimp and chatting with the Falconers co-owner when Jack meets his gaze from across the room. He must see his son’s panic because he bows out of the conversation and makes a b-line to Jack, only being stopped a few times for a hello and a handshake.

“You only got stopped twice crossing the room, that has to be a new record.”

Bob smirks. “What can I say? My star is fading. How is your night going?”

“Just spent fifteen minutes fielding questions about Samwell Hockey’s new ‘homosexual’ captain. Is it weird I’d forgotten how terrible these events are?”

Bob’s expression darkens, and Jack offers up the names he knows his father wants to remember: “Williams and that Bauer rep, Martinez.”

“Get used to it, bud,” Bob sighs, scouring the crowd for friendly faces. “These people don’t want the truth they want war stories. Headlines and punchlines.”

Jack straightens his shoulders and plasters on a broad smile. “Diversity is important,” he says faking a midwestern accent. “Everyone can play, though some terms and conditions may apply. See your local team for details.” He shoots his father a cheeky wink, still deceptively cheerful.

“Why are you playing hockey when you can act like that?”

“Missed my true calling, pretending to be someone I’m not. Oh, wait.”

Bob snickers and slaps a hand on Jack’s shoulder after he finishes his glass of champagne. “Let’s get some real food, I want a burger.”

Jack leans into the touch just slightly and Bob slides his hand up to cradle the back of his head. A grounding holdover from when he was a kid.

“If Bits were here he’d sneak into the kitchen to bake you a pie,” Jack jokes, and his father scratches at his scalp gently in response.

“Don’t joke about that, son. I have half a mind to hire your boy as a personal chef.”

“He’d probably love that.”

Jack finishes his drink and leaves the empty glass on a windowsill. He hopes the condensation leaves a ring.


	14. Part XIV - BEYONCÉ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Wedding: Eric’s a little famous, but he’s not used to taking advantage of that status. Good thing he’s surrounded himself with people who don’t have the same hang-ups.

Beyoncé’s new tour dates are announced and not only is she playing Starbucks Arena, she’s playing in Seattle during a lull between a stretch of home games. 

“I didn’t realize you were so into Beyoncé, Bittle. Isn’t that a little bit stereotypical?”

Eric doesn’t have time for Boomer’s casual homophobia, pre-sale tickets go on sale in three minutes and for once this miserable season, he’d like to get something he actually wants.

“I don’t know if anyone has told you, Booms, but I’m pretty fucking gay. And you know what else is a stereotype: sucking big, thick, hard –”

Boomer raises his hands and backs away from Eric’s table. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”

Eric waves the d-man off while Carter slides out the chair beside Eric and drops his take-out box on the table, careful not to jostle the laptop.

“He’s getting better.”

“He’s getting his stall plastered with hardcore vintage porn is what he’s getting,” Eric mutters. “Swear to the Lord, you’d think I was a walking identity crisis –” 

Two minutes. His card info is pre-loaded. Carter is chomping away on something that smells like curry. Eric’s blood is vibrating under his skin like he’s in overtime. He’s ready. 

“Wait, why are you buying them yourself? I’m sure JoAnn can get some from the front office for us.”

Eric stares at the screen. 1:27. He doesn’t want to bother the team’s publicist over something like this. He’s an adult. He needed help with Hamilton tickets, he doesn’t need help for Beyoncé. He  _knows_  Beyoncé. 

Maybe not literally, but still. 

“Dude, let me call her. Just in case.”

“Leave her alone. She’s done enough for us this season.”

0:18

“Maybe we should –”

 _“Shhhhhhhh!”_  

The waiting room clicks over and he’s in. Easy as pie. He selects his seats, nabs the VIP package, gets to the checkout screen, and…

And…

“What the hell…?”

 An error message pops up.

“No, no, no, no,” Eric clicks the screen, and when the page refreshes there’s nothing there. No seats. No VIP meet and greet. Nothing. A happy little banner pops up that reads  _‘Thank you for participating in Citi Bank’s Presale –’_

Eric’s stomach drops. “Are you kidding me!? It’s been thirty seconds!”

“It’s bots, man,” Bay shouts from across the room. “Those ticket resellers program these computers to –”

“I don’t give a good god damn if it’s a robot! I was right there! They were mine!” He drops his head to the table and whines. “I can afford them on the secondary market, it’s just the  _principle_  of the matter.”

“I’m so sorry, man,” Carter runs a sympathetic hand over his back. “Can I call JoAnn now?”

Eric shakes his head, content to wallow in his own sadness.  _“Everything I touch turns to death,”_ he moans.

“That sounds like a yes.”

Eric’s phone starts vibrating beside his head – the tap-tap-tap pulse he’s set for Jack – but before he can answer Carter’s tapped the call button for him.

“Hey, Zimmermann. You’re on speaker phone, your husband’s in a state.”

_“Carter, um, thanks? Bits, you okay? Did you get your tickets?”_

“…no,” Eric sighs, lifting his head to stare blearily at his phone. “The bots ruined me, Jack. I’m dead.”

“Your man is too proud to use his contacts, Zimms,” Carter snickers and elbows Eric in the side. 

 _“That’s unfortunate,”_ Jack consoles, but Eric can hear something else in his voice. Something distinctly  _amused._

“Jack, I swear to god if you make me wait any longer –”

 _“I have two VIP passes sitting on my desk at home right now. I talked to my agent about it weeks ago. I wanted it to be a surprise.”_   

Eric’s mouth goes dry and Carter shakes his shoulders roughly in excitement. He can’t make his voice work. 

Carter leans in close, whispering, “Bittle, you crying?”

_“Bits? Bud? You there?”_

_“No,”_  Eric breathes, composing himself, “I’m just, really happy I married my husband, and I get to meet Beyoncé.”

There’s silence across the line, then,  _“Bits, I know those things aren’t in order, and that’s okay. I love you, too_


	15. Part XV - Peach Buds and Photobombs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely @missweber: After Jack and Bitty come out, the media likes to make assumptions about the state of their marriage based on poorly timed photos and half-hearted interviews. It’s a good thing they have such a healthy relationship, or things like that might actually bother them.

It starts innocently enough at a ‘low’ stakes Falcs v Schooners game eight months removed from their now famous cup series and even more infamous wedding.

Jack’s being interviewed during warm-ups, and Eric skates by, looks at Jack, the camera, realizes he’s in the shot and keeps moving. Except that’s not all it is. When everything is said and done, after the Falcs have eked out a win in regulation on home ice, Jack finds Eric in the the catacombs and can’t keep from smiling as he shows off a screenshot of the interview, with Eric in the background, caught between the reporter and Jack, looking particularly smug.

But that’s not the only one. There’s one from the third period where Jack’s line had been out and Eric had been watching from the bench. Jack is mid pass, looking very much like the hockey royalty he is, and Eric is visible just to the right actually rolling his eyes.

“Tell me that’s not up yet,” Eric groans.

“Oh, it’s going to be up for a long time. ‘ _#Troubleinparadise_ ’ is trending.”

The hashtag is the worst part by far. It’s almost enough to distract him from the way Jack’s shirt is sticking to his shower-damp skin.

“That’s horrible. Send me the link I’ll come up with something better,” Eric makes grabby hands at the phone, then noticing they’re alone, shifts his target and squeezes his husband’s pecs, just because he can. 

“Hey sexy,” Eric grins, moving to scratch at Jack’s abs.

“That tickles, stop,” Jack tries to wriggle free but Eric goes for broke and gets his arms around Jack’s waist to hug him, dropping a hand to grab a handful of Zimmer-booty.

“God, I missed you,” Eric sighs, “and I missed your backside something fierce.  _Gentleman_ ,” he greets with a two-handed squeeze.

 _“Mais voyons,”_ Jack sighs and goes limp against him. “Alright. Get it out so we can go to dinner.”

Eric laughs and proceeds to pinch, poke and grope until someone calls Jack’s name from down the hall. 

Before they part, Jack gets an arm around him and kisses him deeply.

“Sorry we kicked your ass, Bits.” he murmurs against Eric’s lips.

“You changed your toothpaste,” Eric whispers, before biting at his husband’s lower lip. “And you can suck my dick, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Later,” Jack promises. “Find a better hashtag for your resting bitch face, first.”

* * *

After that first game, Eric handles a few interviews about his marriage, debunks any rumors that they’re inherently unhappy, or that hockey strains their relationship.

“We have this relationship  _because_  of hockey, not in spite of it,” Eric argues with a man from ESPN Radio. “Just because I roll my eyes when the Falcs are ahead and Jack decides to showboat doesn’t mean I’m not happy that I get to go home with him.”

It tides them over. For just a moment. Or until Jack watches the interview and calls Eric.

“Did you tell ESPN I was  _‘showboating’_?”

“You were up by two, you ham, and you pull that celly? You were showboating. I’m not going to apologize.”

“I was _trying_ to get under your skin,” Jack counters, not unkindly. “I’m just worried about the fact TMZ is running a speculation piece about us again.”

“I don’t understand why they keep doing this, I mean, logically, yes, I can comprehend how click bait-y our marriage is, but still.” There’s a plate of chicken tenders and mac and cheese rapidly cooling on the coffee table, a dish Eric only made in the first place because he was feeling lonely and thinking about his husband.

“I miss you,” Jack says. “I love you. Even if you tell major news outlets that I like to ‘ _showboat_ ’.”

“Aww, well maybe I need to stop calling you sweet-pea and start calling you my little maple-cured-ham.”

Silence.

“You know because you’re such a — “

“Why do you make it so hard for me to love you?” Jack laments. “Just for that, I’m not going to use the new pet name I came up with. You don’t deserve it. Calling me a ‘ham’…”

Eric stabs a piece of chicken and examines it closely. The cheese is starting to cool and congeal. “Oh yeah? I give you ‘maple-cured-ham’ and in return, you deprive me of affection? Terribly rude, Mr. Zimmermann.” Eric waits for a beat, sets his fork down, and caves. “Okay, I’m sorry I called you a ham, please tell me my new nickname, please, please, please —“

Jack sighs, like he being asked to do the impossible, and says, “Fine. I guess I can forgive you. You know how we played the Blue Jackets last week? Well, the hotel gave us these care packages, and there were these amazing little peach candies, and guess what they were called?”

“What were they called?” Eric’s literally on the edge of his seat. He knows how hard it is for Jack to settle on a term of endearment that isn’t universal, so he’s not expecting much, but he’s  _ready_.

“ _[Peach Buds](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.butterfieldscandies.com%2Fproduct%2Fpeach-hard-candy-buds%2F&t=ZTM2NDVkZjM5ZjJiNWJhZjJlMmQwY2RkNDkyMDMwMmRlMTcyZjU0NyxmRE5JNENEYQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AJ5BcEt3EWDjPCQ3XvgWvvQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fwhoacanada.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F164651066127%2Fnhlbitty-part-xv-peach-buds-and-photobombs&m=1)_. I know it’s stupid but they made me think of you so, I thought maybe that’d be something you’d like —” It’s so simple and dumb and entirely  _Jack_  that Eric squeals and kicks out his legs.

“I love it,” he sighs, falling back onto the couch cushions. “I’m changing my name. I’m putting it on a jersey. Sweet-Pea and Peach Bud.”

“Glad you like it. But, hey, maybe don’t call me a ‘ham’?”

“Oh, honey, I would never actually call you a ham. Maybe my little Corn Fritter, or Angel Cake, maybe Butter Bean,” Eric can’t help himself, he just keeps going, even as Jack begs him to stop through peals of laughter. “Sugar Biscuit, Cherry Cobbler, my sweet Pun’kin Pie –”

* * *

So, maybe they’re newlyweds. Maybe they live on opposite sides of the country. Maybe Eric makes a concerted effort to photobomb as many of his husband’s interviews as humanly possible. Maybe Jack does the same. Maybe their walls are plastered with awkward paparazzi shots and hilarious candids. Maybe they’re a little bit famous and a little bit in love. 

Maybe they’re a little bit happy.

But really, who cares?


	16. Part XVI - Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long distance relationships have their fair share of difficulties. When a mid-season medication switch-up has Jack crashing hard with unexpected side effects, Bitty deals with being a world away.

Jack feels like he’s been drugged. 

He tells Marty as much and the man laughs it off with a cheeky wink to the glass in Jack’s hand. “I made your drink, I think I’d know if I’d put in a little something extra.”

He dumps out the rest of the cocktail and switches to water. The euphoric feeling doesn’t leave, though it’s now tinged with something else. Exhaustion maybe? His vision is fuzzy at the edges and his reaction time delayed. He’s not drunk, it’s something else.

It takes a while to realize what this is, ‘danger’ not quite humming at the back of his mind. Not yet.

His hip is killing him and when he gets home he takes another pill so he can at least walk without debilitating pain. He decides to sleep it off, which proves to be a mistake when he wakes up with a migraine. A small, hopefully, manageable thing at first that morphs into a blinding pain. Before he can think better of it, he takes another half pill but immediately knows there’s more at play when his stomach rebels at the two meager sips of water it takes to wash the thing down.

He can’t be sick. He has practice. He has a game in two days. 

Just like that, panic settles in between the pain and nausea, his mind running in abnormal circles because everything fucking hurts and he can’t focus.

He’s itching to call Bitty, desperate for some small measure of comfort; but he can’t because Bitty is  _gone,_ a realization that hits witha sudden, inexplicable anger. 

If Bitty really loved him, he’d already be here. He wouldn’t have taken the Schooners offer, wouldn’t have left Jack alone in Providence. It’s not fair - Jack stayed close for Bittle, why couldn’t he return the favor? He could end this right now, all of it. Spare Bitty the pain of spending his prime years with someone as fucked up as Jack Zimmermann. He’s sick, maybe he’s dying? He’s already so far away, what would it really change? Bittle already doesn’t give a shit about them, or he wouldn’t have signed an extension.

Foreign words are resting on the tip of his tongue like poison darts. A finger hovering over a button to launch a nuclear warhead. 

He’s alone. He’s always alone. He’s going to  _stay_ alone.

_(Are you crying, or is that just the headache?)_

I’d be so easy to say such terrible things—things that no apology could take back or undo. There’s an entire continent between them, if he did it right, Bittle would  _never_  take him back.

_(You’re circling, you need to call someone.)_

Who is he kidding? Even if Bittle stays, Jack will never come out of the closet on his own; TMZ will beat him to the punch. Post some terrible photo of an intimate moment and the world will forever see Bitty as Jack’s dirty secret. They could never have a love story like his parents, even if they were out people would talk, throw insults, it wouldn’t be better, it’d be worse. So much worse.

_(Stop, this isn’t you, it’s just your neuroses.)_

Maybe he should have tried harder last time. He should have locked the door, should have texted Kent beforehand to say he was fine, told his parents to go to dinner without him; no one would have come looking. If he’d done it right it would have just taken a few minutes longer and —

_(SHUT THE FUCK UP)_

Jack rocks back on his heels and presses his palms against his eyes. There are a dozen voices in his head and none of them are right.

“Siri…” Jack hisses, “…call Doctor Whitman…”

_‘Calling Dr. Samantha Whitman…’_

“Jack?”

“Something’s wrong, I can’t think,” he chokes, pressing harder at his eyes trying to relieve the pressure,  _“f-fuck it hurts.”_

“Jack, breathe with me, in and out. Are you injured?”

“No,” he bites, “ _a headache_.”

“Have you taken any medication?”

“Y-yes,” Jack sobs, curling into himself at the foot of the bed.  _“S'il vous plaît … je ne veux pas mourir comme ça …”_

“Jack, listen to me, I’m going to send someone to pick you up. Do I have your permission to do so?”

It takes everything Jack has to say ‘yes’.

 

* * *

 

It’s an otherwise unremarkable day when a Google Alert notification interrupts Eric’s workout playlist. He doesn’t pause his rowing instead asking Siri to read the message to him.

_‘NHL Injury Report - Falconers: J. Zimmermann (undisclosed) out for Friday game against the Blackhawks.’_

It’s concerning, but not wholly unexpected. Jack had a rough go of it the week prior, Eric’s more concerned that Jack didn’t say anything about being hurt. But, honestly, they haven’t really talked about much of anything these past few weeks, other than contract renegotiations, tape comparisons, recipe suggestions. 

It’s also one of the longest stretches they’ve had between seeing each other since the wedding, and it’s been grating on Eric’s nerves like nothing else. They’re up to eight weeks now. Two whole months. 

He looks around the gym and, finding his scattered teammates otherwise occupied, tells Siri to draft a text to ‘ _Jay-Z_ ’: 

‘ _Hope you’re feeling better, I’ll call when I can <3′_ 

Jack doesn’t respond immediately, nor does a read receipt pop up. No further notifications roll in, and Eric is able to finish his workout uninterrupted, which is somehow more stressful than if Jack had texted him back.

After he showers, he texts again. After dinner, he calls,  _twice_ , and leaves a voicemail that he hopes doesn’t sound too whiny.

Then he texts Tater:  _‘Is there a team event tonight? I can’t seem to get in touch with Jack. Just wanted to make sure everything is okay.’_

Eric doesn’t receive an immediate response and assumes his first guess was correct. The Falconers have a season ticket-holder event, or a team dinner, or something, so he’s not going to worry. Jack’s an adult, with a whole team to support him. Eric doesn’t have to worry about his whereabouts from 3,000 miles away.

Of course, then his phone lights up across the room with an incoming text from Bob Zimmermann:  _‘Call me when you get this.’_

He doesn’t need an invitation, and after two rings, Bob barely gets out a greeting before Eric interrupts, “Is Jack okay?” 

“Easy, son, easy, Jack is fine.”

“But he’s not, or you wouldn’t be talking to me.” 

Eric feels sick - twenty minutes ago he was halfway asleep, now he’s wide awake, sitting upright in his bed with the comforter rucked-up around his waist.

The general anxiety he’s been writing off all day as unnecessary worry has blossomed into a nauseous terror and  _he’s alone while Jack is god knows where and Bob said he’s okay, but what even is okay and is he lying to me why would he lie?_

The room is too big, the bed too hot, his heart is beating too fast and he doesn’t know what to do –

 _“Eric,”_  Bob barks over the line, startling him.  _“Breathe.”_

Oh. Breathing. He needs to do that.

“Did I just … have a panic attack?” Eric gasps, trying to catch his breath. “It feels like it.”

“Sounds like it,” Bob affirms. “You alright, son? Do you need a minute?”

“No, no, just tell me what happened before I continue to assume he’s dead.”

“Jack had an adverse reaction to the muscle relaxant he was taking for a sprain. He recognized he wasn’t thinking clearly and called his personal physician. He’ll be under observation for a day or two, but he’s going to be fine.”

Maybe Eric did need that minute because his stomach drops to somewhere several floors below his apartment.

“Was he … is it … did he try again?” Eric whispers, mind jumping to the worst possible scenarios before Bob curtly says  _‘no’_. 

“But he was thinking about it,” Eric pushes, rolling out of bed. “Or he wouldn’t be under observation.”

“I trust his judgment in asking for help,” Bob says, not answering the question. It occurs to Eric that Bob may not know what happened. “

“Where is he staying? I’ll fly out tonight.”

“We’re at the airport now,” Bob says, “but we have this handled. You have a game tomorrow –”

“Fuck the game, fuck the Kings. Let them scratch me.”

“Eric-”

“What if it was Alicia?” Bob goes silent and Eric knows he’s gotten his point across as he pulls on a pair of jeans. “I’ll be there by morning.”

“I’ll message you the details.”

“ _Merci beaucoup, Papa._ ” Eric says, fully aware he’s playing his Zimmermann trump card. 

“ _Bonne nuit, mon fils,”_ Bob replies softly.

Eric hangs up and makes three phone calls while he throws toiletries into his prepacked travel bag: Delta, to get on the next Boston red-eye because Providence doesn’t have a direct until 7 am tomorrow morning. His mother, because he needs to talk to  _someone_ about the fact that his boyfriend just hospitalized himself because he was  _maybe_  feeling suicidal; and finally April, the head of Schooners public relations.

He keeps everything short and sweet, mostly since his voice is shot from the violent, surprise crying bout he’d only recovered from about ten minutes prior. 

The distance has always been hard, but Eric’s not ready to put hockey above family.

Not yet.


	17. Part XVI - Breakdown - Bitty Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty's thoughts as he heads to Providence after the events of Breakdown.

Eric’s adrenaline stressed brain comes up with a brilliant plan. He’s going to fly to Boston, catch a car to Providence, and be waiting for Jack at the hospital. And at the moment, it’s a solid plan. It gets him through a half dozen phone calls, several crying jags, and through TSA pre-check. It gets him onto the plane and settled in his seat. It allows him to respond to Bob’s text with the address. It allows him to order a drink.

But somewhere over Montana, Eric’s rational brain catches up to the horrors of the evening and the world slows down enough that he can examine things more carefully. 

He’s six hours from his husband, at best, and his plan is…what, exactly? To surprise him when he wakes up? To bring balloons? To stress him out that his crisis caused Eric to miss a late-season game? Possibly two?

Jack didn’t call Eric. He called his parents or at least asked that they are notified first. Not his husband, on the other side of the country, with commitments. Responsibilities. A team of his own.

It’s been an ill-kept secret between them that they hoped to never see the other in a hospital bed, and at that moment Eric doesn’t know if he’s doing this for himself or for Jack.

He’s not angry, or hurt, per say, but trapped in business class, he feels like he’s toeing a boundary he didn’t realize existed. 

He turns off his music and settles into his seat, listening to the ambient noise in the cabin.

Between Seattle and Boston, the plan changes.

_____

Eric doesn’t go to the hospital. He goes to Jack’s condo.  _Their_  condo. 

He takes stock of the sparse kitchen, the ill-stocked pantry, the pervasive hockey-funk that creeps up whenever they go a few days without cleaning; then he finds Jack’s absolute disaster of a master bedroom, the sour mess still in the toilet, left behind from Jack’s impromptu trip to the emergency room.

 _“Oh, honey,”_  he chides, finding the bed sheets half-stripped but still obviously slept on.

Eric doesn’t go to the hospital, instead, he digs out a pair of rubber gloves from under the sink and starts cleaning.

______

He’s barely finished wiping the last crumbs from the counter when he hears the lock click. Then he hears voices, speaking in soft French he can’t quite follow, but he catches his name, an endearment or two, and then he’s face to face with his husband; who looks like a fucking mess.

“Hey, Bits,” Jack says tiredly, though he rallies with a smile.

“Hey, Jack,” Eric smiles back, fights tears and tries not to make eye contact with Bob and Alicia. “Guess what? I made pie.”


	18. Prompt Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> Since bitty is (I think?) the first openly gay player in the NHL in the fics, what about other players hitting on him when they play the schooners, or even better, during the all star game when jack is right there?

The game so far has been nothing memorable, just another pre-season exhibition against Edmonton that neither team really want to give their all because why risk anything before the season even starts?

“Bittle,” Burig, a second line Oilers winger, flags Eric down at the end of the second period, with a look of grim determination that gives Eric the sense he’s about to be sucker-punched.

“Yeah?”

“You, uh,” Burig hesitates, gnawing on his mouthguard and twisting his stick in his hands while he comes up with whatever he wants to say. He huffs and looks around for any teammates that might be watching the exchange, finding the rest of his line distracted, he leans in close. “You doing anything after the game?”

Eric blinks. “What?” 

“Just,” Burig shrugs, face flushing pink, “wanted to see if you’d like to grab a drink or something.”

“Oh. Oh!” Someone from the bench yells his name and Eric is faced with a dilemma he knows he can’t resolve in the next 15 seconds. “Wait for me after the game, we can talk.”

Burig nods tightly, beet red, and skates back to his own bench.

Just another thing for Eric to think about while coach yells at him for missing an unnecessary pep talk.

____

Burig is waiting for Eric when he leaves the locker room, hair still damp and his suit slightly rumpled like he’d thrown it on in a rush, which makes Eric feel worse for some reason.

“Hey,” he perks up when he sees Eric, sliding his phone into his gear bag. “You wanted to talk?” He sounds so earnest it  _hurts_  and Eric motions to a meeting room just off the hallway.

“It’ll be a bit more private in here.”

Eric doesn’t waste time when the doors close, Burig isn’t the first player to approach him and he certainly won’t be the last.

“You’re very sweet, but I have a boyfriend.”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Burig curses, shouldering his duffel bag. “No way someone as hot as you is single. Worth a shot, right?”

“Were you looking for a hook-up or?”

“No, not like that, I just kinda,” he hesitates like he’s afraid of saying too much.

“Safe space,” Eric waves his arms to indicate the empty room. “Be honest.”

“I’m tired of Grindr and puckbunnies and bar hookups, you know? I want something real.”

Eric immediately runs through a list in his mind of the few single players he’s met in similarly awkward situations. “You play in Vancouver next week, right?”

Burig’s eyes go wide and Eric holds up a warning finger. “Hold your horses. I may have a friend in a similar situation, but it’ll be on his terms if he wants to reach out. Give me your number, and I’ll pass it along if he wants to meet. Okay? No promises.”

_______

“You want to tell me why we’re watching Vancouver slaughter Edmonton when we could be doing literally anything else?” Jack bemoans from the couch, poking and prodding at Eric to distract him.

“I’m invested, alright? You plant seeds, you watch ‘em grow.”

The clock runs out on the second period and Eric keeps his eyes trained on Vancouver’s goalie, Crivier, who waves Burig over in a moment of calm. The two talk, barely visible over the shoulder of a commentator, but moments later Burig skates away with a very prominent smile on face. 

“And boom goes the dynamite,” Eric whispers, grabbing the remote to switch over to the new season of House of Cards.

“You playing matchmaker again, Bits?” Jack laughs, pressing himself against Eric’s side and nuzzling at his neck.

“You know how much competition you’d have if I didn’t set up all the guys that hit on me with each other?” Eric breathes, sliding his fingers through Jack’s hair. “I could have a harem.”

Jack groans and squeezes Eric tightly. “I’ll fight everyone,” he murmurs, “even the guys I like.” 


	19. Prompt Interlude II - All-Star Game feat. Kent Parson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mspencerdraws asked:
> 
> Ok idk how decent a prompt this'll be or what even counts as a decent prompt, feel free to ignore me... but.. something that has Kent and NHL!Bitty in it (maybe Jack too IDK)??? idk?? they'd conceivably all be at the All Star Game at the same time (idk how the divisions work out there but shit that would mean Kent and Bitty on the same team???)

Reynolds is going over the Falconers new marketing proposal for the second time when Jack’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He ignores it, but it starts up again right after.

“Excuse me for just a moment,” he slips out of the meeting room into an empty office to see it’s a facetime call from Bitty. He answers to find it’s not his husband, but a grinning Kent Parson.

“Zimms! Hey, guess who made the All-Star team?”

_“Lord, give me back my phone.”_

Kent looks over his shoulder. “Shush, Tiny Boat, I’m your captain now.” He looks back to Jack. “I’ll give you a hint, his team lost last night, and you’re fucking him.”

_“Parson!”_

“Or he’s fucking you. Equality or whatever.”

“Okay, yeah, I get it. It’s Bittle.” Jack sighs, before realizing what Kent had even said. “Wait. Bittle’s playing in the All-Star game? With you?”

“Yeah, and against  _you_ , Iceman. But you do realize you’ll lose with the fastest guys in the league playing on my squad. It’s going to be a fantastic year! So, it’s party time!”

“Congratulations, Bits!” Jack says loudly so Bitty will hear it. “Hey. Tell him ‘I love you’.”

“Aw,” Kent grins, “hey Bittle, Jack says he loves me.” 

The roar of laughter behind Kent gives Jack the feeling that Eric probably made some kind of rude gesture. Rightly so. A thought strikes him and Jack checks his watch.

“It’s only two in Seattle, you’re can’t party at lunch on a Tuesday.”

Kent’s jovial expression sobers. “Excuse you,” he tilts down his camera to reveal a bemused Bitty, Jeff, three men Jack doesn’t recognize offhand, and a lunch spread Jack is immediately wildly jealous of. “I’d say this is a party. Kudos to your Ride-or-Die B for hunting down a Michelin star reservation on like zero notice. Check out the charcuterie platter, it’s a thing of beauty.”

 _“I come here after every second home-loss. You just followed me here.”_  Eric protests from out of frame.  _“Jack, he took my phone.”_

Kent turns away from the camera with a snappy nod. “And who ate the last piece of  _Sopressata?_ That’s right. You eat my wild boar, I make an awkward phone call to my ex on your phone. He’s snippy. Swoops, give him more wine.”

Bitty curses at Kent in response.

“Jack, I love him. We’re going to run away together.”

_“You fucking wish, Parson.”_

“I’m going to hang up now,” Jack announces over the brewing argument. “I have a meeting to get back to. Tell Bittle I’ll call him when I’m done.”

Jack ends the call and stares at the blank phone screen for a moment, listening to the dull murmurs of the meeting next door. He grips his phone tight and clenches his teeth together to hold back an excited cheer.

Bitty’s first All-Star game.  _Their first All-Star game._


	20. Prompt Interlude III - Clubbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> Prompt: Bitty, "Get Me Bodied," clubbing

“Would you care to comment on the video Lukas Bloomquist posted following your win against the Lightning?”

It was an accident.

Boomer never should have been recording in the first place, let alone posting to any Instagram, public or private, but now it’s out and Eric is sitting smack dab in the middle of a press scrum being grilled about his love for Beyoncé where everyone in the world can see.

“I was celebrating with the rest of my team, I really don’t think there’s anything more that needs to be said.” Eric offers a friendly smile, but the horde is undeterred. 

“That was some pretty intense celebrating, Eric. Have you always been such a good dancer?”

Several of the guys behind the scrum snicker loudly, failing to hide their laughter, but Eric keeps smiling even though he feels like his teeth are going to crack.

“What can I say, I like to cut loose after a hard win. We rewarded ourselves with a good time, it was pure coincidence we were able to share that victory with some of Seattle’s finest. It was incredibly unfortunate what happened, and I’m glad everyone is okay.” 

Danny and Smitty are mock twerking behind the press corps, just off camera, and Eric is counting the seconds until his inevitable death when Boomer holds up a child’s fireman’s helmet and shakes it vigorously to get his attention.

“What do you have to say to those arguing that one of your teammates may have been responsible for the fire?”

“I know y’all love a rumor mill, but there was a grease fire at the restaurant next door that triggered the sprinklers.”

“Did your ‘friend’ tell you that?”

He drops his chin to his chest, fighting the burn in his cheeks. “Are there any questions about tonight’s game? I mean, Cricket got a hat-trick.”

Cindy, from the Seattle Times, covers up her microphone. “Well, Crocker didn’t get caught on tape booty-dancing to ‘Get Me Bodied’ with Tacoma’s Firefighter of the Year. We have priorities.”

“But do you have any human decency?” Eric hisses before realizing there are still cameras on him. “Oh, no.”


	21. Pens!Bitty AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Compilation of Pens!Bitty posts:
> 
> \- Jack overhears a conversation between Bob and Mario about Bitty. Takes place after the NHL hack that leaks homophobic emails. Eric is fed up with the entire league and planning to make a statement by not signing with anyone. 
> 
> \- Pens!Bitty gets hit and mistakes his captain for his secret boyfriend.

It’s just another godawful luncheon, but today Jack has the added pleasure of every other donor asking Jack’s opinion about his ‘homosexual’ teammate going pro. After the third locker room joke, Jack excuses himself, desperate for air, only to find his father and Uncle Mario nursing their drinks on the club’s back patio. 

He’s about to find somewhere less conspicuous when he hears: 

_“That’s not even debatable, Bittle is going to be scouted. Even if he’s just shipped down to a farm team, Bettman isn’t going to-”_

Oh. Of course, Mario would be involved in all of this, he’s an owner. Jack knocks his knuckles against the railing, his manners winning out over his morbid curiosity. They stop talking abruptly, but his father visibly relaxes when he sees it’s just Jack and not another donor.

”Mario was just filling me in on the speculation surrounding your old line-mate.” Bob isn’t subtle by half when he shoots a wink Jack’s direction, acting like he hadn’t seen Eric himself not twelve hours ago.

“Oh. Right, Bittle,” Jack affirms, already primed with the sound bite he’s been repeating for the past hour. “He’s a great player: fast, soft hands. I’ve known guys with far less skill who have played for years, people should really be focusing on his game, not his personal life.” 

The words are barely out of his mouth when he looks up and finds Mario frowning slightly.

“I just heard you tell Dave Kessler the exact same thing, word for word. I know you’re friends with the kid, Bobby’s told me as much, what do you really think? No bullshit.”

Jack hesitates, taking a moment to be sure no one else is in earshot.

“He’s going to be a pity draft so the league can avoid bad publicity, and he deserves more than that,” Jack admits, picking at the label on his bottle. “Not that he’s even interested anymore since the leak.”

“It’s a good thing he has a friend like you for support,” Bob adds, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Shame he can’t play for the Falconers, isn’t it Mario?”

“ _Such a shame_ ,” Mario echoes, his tone implying he’s anything but remorseful. “Rumor has it the Schooners are interested, but how nice would it be to have a friend in Pittsburgh? Maybe you’d come visit your uncle more often.”

“Pardon?” Jack looks to his father to confirm if he just heard Mario correctly, and Bob is grinning like a loon. 

“You and Sid have similar playing styles,” Mario offers, “Bittle should fit nicely, though I can’t guarantee he won’t be dropped to the AHL if he doesn’t perform. Bobby’s been giving me the hard sell all afternoon, and it sounds like you think he’s a good bet, so what do I have to lose? We just took the cup again, I’m sure we can find room for an NCAA champion.”

“That’s fantastic,” excitement and panic are warring in Jack’s mind, “but you should –”

Mario holds up a hand and shushes him gently. “You hear that, Jack? It’s the sound of plausible deniability. Just make sure he gets to camp, I’ll handle the rest.”

Jack nods, oddly numb, and retreats back to the meeting room. He fumbles for his phone and stops short of calling Eric right then and there, instead, he texts:  _‘Uncle Mario said the Pens want you, I’ll call as soon as I can.’_  

Bitty doesn’t respond immediately, but Jack’s not worried. Pittsburgh is closer to Providence than Seattle or Georgia. Mario is family. Bitty will be safe, or as safe as he can be given the situation. 

Jack can work with this.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

A sprained ankle here, a blown ACL there, and Bitty’s on the Penguins starting line flanking Sidney Crosby like it’s nothing. Like it’s no big deal he’s racking up assists left and right for the man who is going to displace two of Bad Bob’s career records this season. Like Eric didn’t have a debilitating fear of physical contact less than five years ago and is now playing for a team defending a championship title.

From behind, Sid looks like Jack. Or at least he has Jack’s ass, which is a hell of a thing to realize after being slammed into the boards. He’s disoriented enough to ask, “Jack?” when his captain skates up to check on him.

“Bittle, you okay?“

Eric blinks and the illusion is gone. No Jack, no Samwell, just the Pittsburgh Penguins beating the snot out of the New Jersey Devils. And the Devils beating the snot out of Eric.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Eric says, pulling himself to his feet and blinking through a blossoming headache. “You know you look a lot like Jack Zimmermann from behind?”

“Better not be a crack about my ass, Bittle,” Crosby elbows him lightly, herding him back to the bench.

“ _Aboot_ ,” Eric echoes, “I wouldn’t joke about your ass, Captain. Special kind of cheek meat.“ 

That didn’t come out right…and why are the lights so bright? Are they always this bright?

Crosby slides to a stop and Eric bumps right into him. “You sure you aren’t concussed?” Though he’s asking, Eric can clearly see Sid waving over a trainer. Eric takes a moment to reflect on his situation, what he’s just said to his teammate.

“No, but you really look like my boyfriend.”

“You just said I look like Zimmermann.”

“I know. Jack Zimmermann looks like my boyfriend.”

Crosby connects invisible dots in midair with his finger. “I look like Jack Zimmermann, who looks like your boyfriend, who looks like me.”

“Yes. No?”  That sounds right. Kinda.

“Bittle. Do I look like your boyfriend from behind?”

Eric nods, even though the motion makes his world tilt sideways.

“I look like your boyfriend, Jack Zimmermann, from behind.”

“Yes.” Wait. That’s a secret. “Shit, that’s a secret.”

“Fuck, yeah, you’re sitting this period out, buddy.”

Malkin slides up beside Crosby and gives Eric a once over. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Got his bell rung, thinks I’m his boyfriend.” Crosby slaps the rail twice with his glove and shoots Eric a wink. A couple of the boys whistle and holler while the trainer shines a light in Eric’s eyes. The part of Eric’s brain still functioning properly is probably really upset right now.

“I don’t think it’s a concussion, he’s just dazed.”

“I’m ready to go in, coach, just give me a chance.” Eric jokes, though no one laughs. “Ace Ventura? No?”

The arena turns sideways along with Eric’s stomach and he burps wetly. Sullivan makes a face and says something to the trainer and just like that Eric is being directed to the locker room for further examination.

Eric hopes this makes for a really funny story later.

**Author's Note:**

> whoacanada.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Show Me Your Fangs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478068) by [Julorean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julorean/pseuds/Julorean)




End file.
